


small town firelight

by theviolonist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Genderswap, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 74,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I love you," the little girl in blue says, ducking her head, and the daredevil, who was so happy to make a friend when she climbed over the fence that first day, has never hated friendship more.</p><p>(or, Zayn is a punk and Liam is her best friend and definitely <i>not a lesbian</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been long in progress, but I'd promised it to [Jackie](http://thelastdamnkid.tumblr.com/) for [this mix](http://myteethsharper.livejournal.com/7952.html). A million of thanks to [shrdmdnssftw](http://shrdmdnssftw.tumblr.com) for her help, patient weeding out of my Americanisms/French-isms (notably her insistence that I type my 'arsehole's properly), encouragement and general loveliness.

  
**part i.**

_and you came well-equipped / with a gun on your hip and some poison on your lips_ ([x](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRsdlpvV-q0&noredirect=1))  


  
There's a girl in the front yard opposite Zayn's house that Zayn's never seen before. It's strange because Zayn doesn't have a lot to do during the summer – sometimes her friends bore her, so she bikes around the neighbourhood until her calves hurt and then she sprawls in the late afternoon sun and she watches the people in the street. She knows almost all of them now.

People are fascinating to Zayn: there's Mrs Hardison with the red hair who lost her husband in the the second world war and always waves at Zayn, the George family with their perfect children, this couple with the nice dog called Spike who always slobbers all over Zayn's shoes. Of course Marissa lives here too, but Zayn tries to ignore her, even when she and her girlfriends point at Zayn and laugh from the other end of the street.

The new girl is long and plain, with chestnut hair in a thick braid that hangs down her back. Her eyes look brown in the distance, but Zayn really couldn't tell. She's wearing a yellow dress, and she's helping her parents unload the big truck, even though she only carries the light stuff. She looks like she's happy to help, though, which is weird – she smiles and says 'thank you' every time someone hands her something.

Zayn is considering going over to say hello anyway, because she's ten and bored and beggars can't be choosers, but her mum calls her to set the table. A thick smell of spices and meat wafts through the open window. 

"Coming!" Zayn calls back, not moving. 

She spends a few more minutes with her elbows crossed on the fence, watching the girl and trying to guess how old she is and what she's called (Amanda? She looks like an Amanda) before running inside. 

She gets in trouble for not coming right away (and also because the seat of her shorts is stained with grass and mud), but she doesn't care.

*

The girl is still there the next day. She's sitting in one of the lawn chairs her family brought in, white and iron-wrought, with different shapes twirling on the back, a heart, a spade, something that looks like a big cloud. Her books are open in front of her, and she's chewing on her pen. She looks more focused on her homework than anyone Zayn's ever seen during the school year. 

Zayn decides to go over. Sure, she looks a little boring, but it's not like she can be worse than Marissa, anyway; and besides, if she keeps doing stuff alone Zayn's pretty sure her mum's going to give her holiday homework too, and that is _not on_. She checks that no one is looking, left right, and hops over the fence, legs swinging easily.

"Hi," she says when she's reached the table, as inconspicuously as possible. The girl is still looking down at her books, her eyebrows lightly furrowed. 

She looks up, surprised. "Hi?" she says, and then: "How did you get here?"

Zayn points to the fence with a smirk.

"You can't do that," the girl says, frowning.

Zayn shrugs. She likes doing forbidden things. "I just did. What's your name?" she asks before the girl can object something else. 

The girl hesitates for a second, then the wrinkle between her eyebrows smooths. She looks better without it. "Liam."

Zayn thrusts her hand forward like she's seen the adults do. "I'm Zayn. Do you want to play?"

Liam glances at the hand uncertainly, but after a second she shakes it. Her hand is delicate and cold from being wrapped around her glass of lemonade. She glances down at her books. "I can't. I've got homework."

Zayn waves it off. "It's the _summer_ ," she says. "You can't be doing homework in summer."

"No," Liam protests, "I'm doing it to prepare for –"

"There's a pond not far," Zayn interrupts. "Do you have a swimsuit?"

Liam shakes her head no.

Zayn smiles mischievously, her eyes shining. "Me neither," she says, taking Liam's hand.

*

They only come back home after seven, dripping and muddy, their damp skin gleaming in the orange sun. The depths of the pond were still dark from autumn, slimy with frog's eggs and weeds, but Zayn dove in without hesitation and after a while Liam followed, forgetting her seriousness. They forgot the time, splashing the water with their hands and laughing, chattering about everything and nothing until they got tired and the sun started dipping in the horizon. Liam's mum is standing on the stairs of her house, hands akimbo, her face frowning and disapproving. Zayn's mum is standing next to her.

"Shit," Zayn says, grimacing. The word tastes weird in her mouth because she doesn't say it often, but she decides she likes it. "Shit," she repeats, testing the sonority. She grins in satisfaction. Liam glances at her, wide-eyed.

"We're in trouble," she says, biting her bottom lip. 

Their hands are still linked, like when they left the pond; Zayn squeezes for reassurance. Liam looks like she's waiting for Zayn to say she's sorry, but instead Zayn leans in and whispers, "I'll show you the ice-cream cart tomorrow."

Liam turns to smile at her, her first full-blown, blinding smile since they met; they walk on.

*

The summer goes by ten times faster with Liam there. She's much more fun that she looked the first time Zayn saw her, which is a relief, and she also knows a lot of stuff about pretty much everything, and listening to Liam explain how the dinosaurs disappeared is much more interesting than listening to Mrs Higsby, even though Mrs Highsby is pretty fun sometimes. She still has to do her stupid homework, but usually she does it in the morning and she lends Zayn books so she can read next to her on the grass. Zayn reads _Artemis Fowl_ and devours the whole _Harry Potter_ saga for the second time, making off-hand comments as she reads. 

"Harry is such a _tool_ ," she says once, pouting. "I bet if Hermione had been the heroine, there would have been, like, three books instead of seven."

Liam throws her head back laughing, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Her face changes completely when she laughs: it opens, it folds and flutters like a flower in bloom, as lame as the comparison is. Looking back, that first time is probably the moment Zayn decided to do everything in her power to make Liam laugh. Now she doesn't think about it too much. 

But the best part of the day is always the afternoon. Zayn usually decides what they do; she knows the neighbourhood better and if she left it up to Liam they'd probably wind up doing their mothers' grocery shopping and sorting the laundry. Liam doesn't look like she minds, though – she follows Zayn when she decides to race through the forest and dives into the game with adorable focus when Zayn introduces her to Mario Kart. She doesn't ever complain about running too much, the way Marissa used to when Zayn and her were still friends; in fact, she runs faster than Zayn, and she says that when school starts again she'll try out for the gymnastics team.

Zayn's not much for the indoors: her brothers are annoying and she likes the sun more than anything. Liam's house is better because her brother and sister live with her father – her parents got divorced a while ago, that's why Liam and her mum moved here. Her mum is kind of boring, though, what with how she always wants them to wash their hands before eating and do dull things like play with dolls and board games.

Zayn's mum says Liam is a ‘good influence’ or something; to be honest, Zayn doesn't really care as long as she lets them be. Zayn even carves her and Liam's initials in the big oak tree in the garden, high enough so you can only see if you really want to, and in return Liam makes them both friendship bracelets with the sewing kit and pearls she got for her seventh birthday. Zayn never takes it off, even to shower.

In short, Liam is awesome. Zayn wasn't convinced at first, what with the homework and frilly dresses, but she's nice and fun and she likes Zayn and she even keeps Marissa away. She's perfect. Zayn wants them to be best friends forever.

"You're not going to ditch me when we go back to school, right?" is what slips out of her mouth one afternoon as they're lying in a clearing in the forest that Zayn found, the trees casting their big, gentle shadow over them. She didn't mean to say it, but she never takes things back.

Liam looks over at her, surprised. She hauls herself up on her elbows. "Why would I do that?" she asks, her face confused.

Zayn shrugs, flicking a flower to avoid looking Liam in the eye. "I dunno. I'm not, like, Marissa and stuff. All glamorous and popular and stupid."

Liam smiles. “I know," she says quietly. "That's why I like you."

"You're so cheesy," Zayn says, but she hugs Liam anyway and hides her smile in her skin, at the juncture of shoulder and neck, Liam's hair sticking to her lips. 

*

Despite Liam's promise, Zayn wasn't really expecting her to stick around. She does, though, all the way through secondary school and then college, too. They do everything together, actually, and Zayn used to hate school but with Liam it's different, different and _better_. Even the food doesn't suck as much as it used to. The novelty wears off, of course; after a while Liam is just her best friend whom Zayn's known forever, who chews on her fingernails when she's stressed out, who always gets the best marks but is incredibly modest, who loves _Gossip Girl_ and says Nate is a greek god.

"But he's _ugly_ ," Zayn says, sprawled belly-down on her bed as Liam tries to do their math homework.

"You find everyone ugly!" Liam says, annoyed. Liam rarely loses her calm, so of course Zayn makes it her goal to irritate her.

"No I don't," Zayn protests.

"Right," Liam says, swivelling her chair so they're face to face. Zayn props herself up on her elbows, chewing on a strand of hair. She really has to get it cut, it’s getting in her eyes. "So who do you like?"

"Chuck," Zayn says after a second of reflection, even though she really wants to say _Blair_. "He's kind of hot."

Liam twists her mouth. "You're only saying that because he's a bad boy," she accuses.

"What's wrong with that?" Zayn prides herself on being kind of a bad girl, too. She tried smoking a cigarette the other day with Matt behind the school. Sure, it was disgusting, and Liam gave her that you're-an-idiot look she usually reserves for Marissa and that guy who used to throw piss bombs in the schoolyard, Henry something, but the point is, she did it. 

"They let their friends do their homework for them," Liam says, glaring half-heartedly. Zayn doesn’t think she’s ever seen Liam _really_ glare.

"I know," Zayn smiles cheekily. "Isn't it amazing?"

Liam reaches out to thwack her arm but Zayn's mum calls them for dinner. "Girls!" she yells. "Come help me make dinner!"

Liam frowns. "Saved by the bell."

Zayn takes her hand and laces their fingers together. Liam's palm is familiar against hers, clammy from being wrapped around her pen for so long. Zayn knows exactly where she pressed too hard and there are little spots of black inks on the pulp of her fingers, where the pen left a red mark in her palm. She smiles, ducking her head. Nothing's changed since the day they met.

Well. Almost nothing.

*

Zayn is thirteen when she smokes her second cigarette. It still tastes like shit and it makes her cough; she hacks her lungs out while Liam glares at her from where she's sitting next to her on the concrete, looking as unimpressed as Liam is capable of, which isn't that much. 

"You sure you don't want to try?" Zayn rasps, eyes watering.

"You're going to die," Liam says grimly. "Your lungs are going to shrivel and then fall off."

Zayn chuckles hoarsely, which leads to another coughing fit. "So I take it that's a no, then?" she wheezes, tears peeking at the corner of her eyes.

Liam smoothes a hand down her back. She's Liam – she can't resist helping people, ever. "No, you idiot," she says, but it comes out more fond than exasperated.

"Your loss," Zayn says, even though it's really not that good. It's going to be – besides, she likes the feeling of it, the little rod of the cigarette between her fingers. It's like she's a rockstar or a _femme fatale_ or something.

"Yeah, well," Liam says, "at least I'm not going to get lung cancer and die before I'm thirty."

“Jim Morrison died when he was twenty-seven,” Zayn retorts, coughing in her balled fist. 

Liam raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure he was thrilled about it.”

Zayn chokes on smoke laughing. She whacks Liam on the arm – she rarely lets her sass out, but when she does she's actually hilarious. 

They sit there in silence for a handful of minutes, Zayn sucking on her cigarette and Liam sometimes fanning herself with her hands to keep the smoke away. It's one of the things that make a real friendship, Zayn thinks: being able to sit next to each other and just say nothing, enjoy each other's company without feeling like they need to fill the silence. Zayn thinks about telling her – what would she tell her, exactly? That she thinks she might want to kiss girls rather than boys? It sounds ridiculous – but Liam speaks because she can make a decision.

"Marissa invited me to her birthday party," she says, soft and kind of apologetic. Her head is bowed, so Zayn can't see her eyes, but she could swear they're that shade of dark brown they get when she feels guilty. 

Zayn stiffens. Marissa always invites Liam to her birthday parties. She invites Liam to all her parties, actually; Liam's much more popular than Zayn, mostly because she's on pretty much every existing athletic team and because her mother still insists on buying her girly dresses. Usually, though, Liam just ignores it (well, knowing her, she probably declines politely and sends chocolate or something). And she never, never mentions it to Zayn.

Zayn knows Liam is waiting for her to say something reassuring, pretend she doesn't care, but she doesn't feel like she can, so she doesn't. It's not really nice, but fuck it, Zayn's never been the nice one.

"I was thinking about going," Liam says, and this time Zayn turns towards her, still doesn't say anything but turns around because fuck if that doesn't feel like a betrayal, red and stinging in her stomach. Liam doesn't go to those parties. It's just the way it is. 

"I mean," Liam backtracks frantically, "I can not go if you want, it's not a problem or anything, it's just, Daniel from Year 7 will be there, and -"

Zayn flicks her cigarette on the ground and stubs it with her shoe. She’s always wanted to do that, but for some reason it doesn’t feel as satisfying as she thought it would. She stands up, wiping her clammy hands on her jeans. "Whatever," she says, purposefully not looking at Liam. "Do what you want, I don't care."

She doesn't look back when she leaves, doesn't want to see Liam's face, open and painfully honest, her turned-down mouth and her furrowed eyebrows; instead she jams her headphones in her ears and turns the volume up as loud as she can.

*

Liam ends up not going to the party, but the awkwardness between them doesn't really dispel, even after the issue blows over completely. Their friendship isn’t as easy as it used to be; there are long silences and Wednesdays where they don't call each other and the next Thursday at lunch Zayn catches Liam eyeing Marissa's table. She wants to blame her, but she can't – who wouldn't want to be up there with the pretty, laughing girls instead of eating in silence with the freak kid? Suddenly Zayn feels like a ball Liam's been dragging around for years, holding her back. 

On the weekend Zayn thinks about doing something with Liam to make everything right again, maybe go to the movies to see the new _X-men_ movie, but Liam tells her her mum wants them to go see her grandma in Brighton. Zayn watches them pack their car from behind the curtain of her room. She doesn't come down to see them off, tells her mum that she's sick and doesn't leave her room all day. She feels like she's swallowed a porcupine whole.

That weekend, she feels idle for the first in what must be years – doesn't know what to do as she walks along the streets of Bradford, ducking her head when a car she recognizes passes her by. Eventually, she ends up at _Blockbuster_ , the local video rental store, flicking boredly through the DVDs.

"Hey," a voice comes behind her.

Zayn spins on her heels, expecting to find someone she'll have to make conversation with and already trying to think up a way to weasel out of it. But she doesn't know the girl who's standing before her: she's beautiful in a way that makes Zayn uncomfortable, tall with long dark hair, her neck and arms covered with tattoos. Her eyes are so blue it makes Zayn blink, blinded for a second. 

"Fuck off," she says before she can control her mouth. The girl looks interesting, sure, but that doesn't change anything – Zayn doesn't want to talk to anyone. Her best friend abandoned her for a whole weekend, she's got the right to be a bitch. 

The girl doesn't take offence. Instead she picks up the DVD Zayn was looking at, the corner of her lip quirking in a smile. " _Brokeback Mountain_ ," she comments, arching an eyebrow. "Always a safe choice."

Zayn blushes. "Shut up," she says, and reaches to take the DVD back. 

The girl looks like she might try and dangle it out of Zayn's reach for a second, but finally surrenders it, her nails grazing the side of Zayn's hand. It feels strangely intimate. "I'm Louise."

"Zayn," Zayn mumbles, her hand still tingling from Louise's touch. 

Louise gives her a bright smile, unbidden. This, Zayn will learn later, is all it takes to be her friend. 

"So, Zayn," she asks, rolling the name in her mouth like she's testing it out, "what's a girl like you doing in a place like that? Did you just get dumped? Are you searching for a rom-com to cry to?" Her eyes are twinkling, she's still smiling. Zayn already hates the way she can't quite take her eyes off her. 

"Piss off," she says as sullenly as she can manage. "My best friend is a bitch," she says after a spell, immediately realizing, as soon as the words are out of her mouth, how gay that sounds. 

If Louise notices, she doesn't remark on it. "That happens," she says, her head tilted on the side. Zayn lets her gaze sweep over her while she's checking out the DVDs – she can't be much older than Zayn, and yet it feels like decades separate them, like Louise has already been everywhere and seen everything, done all the things Zayn's been gagging to try for years. 

"So," Louise says after a few minutes of browsing, her finger stilling on the spine of _Thelma and Louise_ , "you wanna get out of here?"

A long shiver runs through Zayn's spine. She can't disguise it, and she catches Louise looking, her smile revealing her sharp, white teeth.

"Sure," she says as casually as she can. 

Louise throws her head back to give a short laugh, her shoulders rolling with it. "Great," she says with the corner of her mouth. 

*

They leave _Blockbuster_ without renting anything, unbothered by the clerk's critical glare as they slip out the door, their laughter drowning the annoying jingle. Zayn learns that Louise is a transfer student; she's a year older and it doesn't take ten minute for Zayn to decide that she's the coolest person Zayn has ever met. They sit on a bench and share a cigarette, Zayn trying not to cough and Louise explaining the meaning of each of the tattoos inked along her arm and creeping up her neck.

It's late when Zayn gets back to the house, her clothes smelling of cigarette smoke even though she tried to air them out on the way back, trying not to notice Louise's eyes darkening as she stood behind the bushes in the evening light in her underwear, whipping her shirt in the air. Her belly is swooping; she can't ignore the memory of that first day with Liam, the light-headedness of having a new friend, slipping into the sheets with a mouthful of expectations, already wishing for tomorrow. 

She doesn't listen to her mother's lecture – that, too, like everything, remings her of Liam: you'll be dead by thirty if you keep this up, your lungs will go black, your teeth will stain, you'll catch cancer, you should think about the people who love you. She goes to sleep with an empty stomach but it doesn't matter, and once the thrumming of excitation subsides she falls into an easy sleep, her head rolling on the pillow. 

Sunday is Louise again and Zayn is flummoxed at how _simple_ it is to know and love her. She's got her secrets, but she's comfortable with them, skirting around them in conversation with a slow smile that says a little time will unravel them. She isn't like Liam at all, is even her opposite in some respects, but it plays well in Zayn's heart and she doesn't question it. She'd rather ask Louise everything she knows about life and listen to her answers, the way everything seems like a joyride in her mouth. 

"I'll take you to get a tattoo, if you want," Louise says nonchalantly, a cigarette dangling from her berry-red lips. 

A small thrill runs up Zayn's spine. "Yeah?" she says, trying to sound casual and probably failing. "That a promise?"

Louise glances over at her, her lips curving into a smile. She passes Zayn the cigarette, slack lips releasing wafts of white smoke; Zayn is careful to apply her lips to the exact same ring where the faint trace of lipstick remains. 

"Maybe," Louise shrugs, enigmatic as always; but after she leaves Zayn realises it's more of a promise than it sounded like at the time. It's like she can already feel the needle weaving its way through her skin, the painful yet satisfying first increment of what has to become one of _those_ friendships, whose whimsical beginnings don't keep from lasting forever. Zayn is sure of it.

She falls back on the bench, barely wincing when her back hits the wood. A small laugh bubbles from her lip. A man passes, suit-wearing and official-looking with a minuscule dog and a receding hairline, and throws her a curious look, but Zayn honestly couldn't care less. 

*

When Liam comes back on Monday, Zayn is almost surprised to see her show up at school with her tidy uniform and her hair cleanly parted, her shoes as shiny as ever. She feels like Friday was a thousand years ago and she's grown out of her skin, the skin she used to share with Liam and that was so comfortable for a while. She feels a sharp pang of guilt when she sees Liam glance at her and Louise bemusedly as she passes what used to be their table at lunch, but then Liam sits with Marissa and her gang and it fades away. 

She watches them for a few seconds, Liam's hair moving like a wave as she shakes her head and laughs, looking for all the world as though she'd never sat anywhere than up there, wedged between two members of the school royalty, her legs crossed daintily at the ankle. Thoughts are swirling in Zayn's head, betrayed, angry, sad, surprised: is Liam really capable of forgetting about them so fast after they've been friends for year, when _she_ was the one who swore up and down Marissa would never come between them? Is she faking it, or is she really as comfortable as she looks? Does Zayn mean so little to her as that? When she turns her attention back to her plate, intent on not hurting herself further, Louise is looking at her, concerned. "Everything okay?" she asks. 

"Sure," Zayn says, her eyes begging Louise to accept the answer. 

Louise nods with a sort of sideways shrug, even though the concern in her eyes doesn't completely disappear. Zayn pushes her plate away; she's not that hungry anymore. But fuck Liam, she thinks with a forceful kind of fierceness. Zayn doesn't need her to be happy. She doesn't. 

*

Zayn turns fifteen, gangly and gawky with pointy bones and curves starting to show. Boys don't look at her twice because she wears her hair short and paints her nails black, but she's okay with that. It's not like she's all that interested in boys, anyway, except maybe for pretending when there's a game of turn the bottle at one of the rare parties Zayn actually attends. Besides, the only thing people know about her is that she used to be Liam Payne's best friend. They grew apart – at least that's what people say. No one really understands why, but then no one understands why she was Liam's best friend in the first place.

The end of the year passed excruciatingly slowly. It was like teenage torture, watching Liam grow increasingly distant, watching her hair turn blonder, her mouth tighter and her laugh meaner – and all that because Zayn didn't want her to go to a party. Zayn knows, though, she knows it's not just that – she knows that Liam just doesn't belong with her, never belonged with her for the first place, but fuck, it felt like it for a while. It's sad. It's just sad.

She decides that she doesn't care, though, because she can't keep pining over the same girl for the entirely of her high school career, ex-best friend or not. She start skipping school to go smoke behind the school and hang out with the Year 10s, trying to look older than her miserable fifteen years and three months. She even has something of a clique, dark-eyed girls with short skirts and tattoos who talk about bands Zayn has to listen to and is surprised to find that she actually enjoys. She likes her new friends, she does. She just misses Liam, is all, short bursts of longing that pierce her stomach and make her want to either run down the hall and kiss her and tell her she loves her or down a bottle of vodka. She drinks a lot.

Louise comes with her when Zayn gets her first tattoo – a little one, a bird in the hollow of her ankle, but still. Zayn's never been very fond of needles. Louise is still tall and red-lipped but she's gotten decidedly less intimidating over the years, what with her occasional goofiness and her insistence over wearing her shoes sans socks, which Zayn – along with everyone else ever – thinks is disgusting. She's already got her right arm almost entirely covered in tattoos, though, so she's kind of an expert in the subject. (Sometimes she wears glasses and bright lipstick and sometimes – too often – Zayn catches herself noticing how pretty she is, how much she wants to kiss the mischievousness off of her smile.)

Louise holds her hand for the forty-five minutes it takes for the tattoo to be done, whispering whatever weird shit goes through her mind, how Aiden got an F in history and her parents grounded her and she sneaked out to fuck Matt Cardle in the backseat of his car, how Zoe once ate a slug, a _slug_ , Zayn, can you imagine? As a result, Zayn is too busy mocking her and/or laughing her head off to notice the pain too much. 

It still hurts a little, but Louise is unexpectedly good at making her feel less afraid. Their interlaced fingers make Zayn's stomach swoop but, well – at least it gives her something else than the pain to focus on. When the tattoo’s finished Louise traces the skin around it with a gentle finger. "Fuck, love," she says, her voice a little awed, as though it was a completely new for her, as though half her body wasn't already covered in ink. "It's wonderful."

Zayn twists around so she can see. The tattoo artist tuts at her and tells her not to touch, her face wearing the same half-fond, half-irritated those-damn-kids look Zayn's ninety-seven-year-old neighbour Mrs Felton gets at Halloween when her house is assaulted by schoolchildren. The tattoo does look badass, even though it's still all swollen-red; then the tattoo artist is putting gauze on it and they can't see it anymore. It doesn't matter, though: Zayn still feels like a queen walking out of the parlor with it hidden under her trousers, the fabric of her jeans brushing painfully against the gauze. She feels like she's hiding a superpower, like she can do everything, be anyone she wants.

Louise drapes an arm around her shoulder. "Feels good, yeah?" she says, smiling, and Zayn feels a flare of affection for her, her weirdness and the fact that she seems to know everything Zayn is going through and guides her through it so gently, so patiently. 

"Yeah," she says, smiling back, and nestles into her side.

The sun shines down on them. _You gonna do great things, baby girl_ , Zayn imagines it saying, big voice like a jazz piano player with sunglasses and a rakish smile.

*

They're at a party for a girl Zayn can't remember the name of, something that ends in 'ia' like Amelia or Julia or whatever the fuck. Zayn used to have AP Chemistry with her before Liam decided to be popular and everything went to shit. (Zayn knows, of course, that Liam didn't _decide_ to be popular, that those things happen. She knows that. She just decides to ignore it.)

They're probably crashing the party – it looks like something that started being RSVP only and then descended, into, well _this_ – but they don't care and it's not like anybody else does, seeing how they're all either trashed or drunkenly making out on every surface available. Zayn avoids the bodies as she walks and plays Who's Who with herself, trying to recognize Maddie the mathlete under the heavy squirming weight of Damian the Scottish football player. It's a nice game, like a puzzle.

She gets bored of it pretty fast though, especially after Louise disappears to talk in hushed tones with a girl with purple-painted nails and breasts ten times nicer than Zayn's; she grabs a beer on a table and heads for the kitchen. Maybe she'll find something to eat there, or someone to talk to. Or she can just get wasted and grab some girl (she says that, but she won't. She lacks the bravado). The rest of the group split up as they walked in but now Zayn kind of wishes they hadn’t, even though she really is over Matt and Aiden’s constant PDA. 

Her thoughts drift to Louise again. It should be weird, this state of in-between where she and Zayn float, the uncertain, honey warmth, but it isn't, not really. Sometimes when it's raining and there's nothing on the telly Zayn calls Louise and they either go get Zayn a new tattoo (she's almost got a whole sleeve of them now, and a few creeping up her neck, under the collar of her leather jackets – it's driving her parents crazy) or they talk, snuggled up in Louise's car, a beat-up Honda her parents gave her when she moved out.

Zayn knows Louise is attracted to her, and she’s definitely attracted to Louise too, sometimes wants to lace their fingers together and just let it happen, but for some reason she doesn’t. She's afraid, so she'd rather wait and see: maybe it'll happen, maybe it won't. Zayn’s a big fan of fate, especially when it works to her advantage. 

She's thinking about convincing Louise to snag a bottle and get drunk in one of the bedrooms, just the two of them, when someone bumps into her and trips on her feet.

"Sorry," Zayn mumbles, crouching down to help the girl. Her hair is all over her face, long and chestnut and sort of glossy.

"'s alright," the girl giggles, obviously drunk. She brushes the hair out of her face, and Zayn withdraws her hand almost automatically.

"Fuck," she breathes.

Liam doesn't hear her. She stumbles up, swaying drunkenly on her feet. When she finally looks at Zayn, recognition flickers faintly in her eyes. “Oh," she says. "Zayn, that you?"

 _It hasn't been that long_ , Zayn wants to say, as though that'd make the fact that she would recognize Liam in any crowd, no matter how large, more normal, more _okay_ ; in the end she just nods. Liam reaches to touch her cheek, and Zayn barely suppresses a shudder. Instead, it works a crack open inside her, between her ribs and her heart, that fateful fucking crack where she put all her feelings for Liam, pressed and crammed to make them all fit. They pour out like an Indian monsoon. Zayn wants to clamp her hands to her chest to keep them from staining her T-shirt.

"You've tattoos," Liam slurs, brushing her fingers to the naked skin of Zayn's arm. The skin immediately raises in goose-pimples. Zayn wishes she’d worn a jacket. 

"I thought you couldn't drink," Zayn says. She remembers Liam saying something (she remembers everything Liam said) about not being able to drink because of a non-functioning kidney, but maybe it's just another of those conversations she imagined (there's one where they sit opposite each other and Zayn says, "I love you," and Liam leans in to kiss her lightly on the lips. This one Zayn is positive never happened – happy endings aren't really her thing. _Their_ thing). 

"I can now," Liam says, gesturing to her belly. "Healed itself."

Zayn finds it suspicious, but it's not like she's going to get more out of Liam, not when she's plastered like this. She moves to get out Liam's way – this is clearly unnecessary, she tells the part of her that thirsts for every second spent near Liam, enveloped in the smell of her soft perfume. Yasmin, Zayn guesses, as if she could really smell anything over the pregnant stench of alcohol and sweat. Liam's not the type to wear perfume at all, actually.

When she looks up, though, Liam is still watching her. Zayn moves to leave again but Liam’s hot fingers close around her forearm. "What," Zayn bites off, but it's small.

Liam smiles. "You're pretty," she says, giggling quietly to herself.

Zayn wants to say no, wants to move, but something roots her to the ground. She feels really tired, like the only thing she needs right now is to lean against a wall or a table, close her eyes and let the heat sweep over her. God, the summer. Zayn always hated it. Liam's fingers are burning fingerprint-shaped marks into her skin; just like Zayn's tattoos, they all tell of belonging in one way or another.

Zayn sees it coming before it happens, but she still doesn't really expect it – Liam's lips crashing against hers, sweet and slick and smelling of alcohol. She can't help but welcome the kiss, open to it; she feels like her flesh is melting in Liam's palm where it's cradling Zayn's cheek. She should probably take a step back, keep herself from giving everything, but that's always been a problem with Liam. Zayn always ends up wanting to give her everything.

Liam moans a little, and the way it vibrates in Zayn's mouth is what wakes her up. She pulls away, breathing heavy. _It's not real_ , she thinks; she feels detached from herself as her gaze sweeps over Liam, her dark hooded eyes and her pink cheeks, her kiss-swollen mouth.

Liam whines, low in her throat. Zayn knew her before she drank alcohol and alcohol makes even the selfless selfish, so it's like a slap in the face and a sharp stab of arousal in the stomach at the same time. Zayn feels accordingly masochistic.

"I love this song," Liam says, even though what's playing is a pop garble that's too low for any of them to recognize. Liam tugs on Zayn's hand, laughing and moving her hips off-beat to get Zayn to dance with her. She plasters herself to Zayn's side, her fingers running over Zayn's hip. Zayn wonders distantly how drunk she is.

She disentangles herself from Liam as delicately as she can manage given that she wants to take to her heels and run away as fast as she can. Her fingers get stuck in Liam's hair, long glossy strands twining around the knobs of her knuckles. She bites her lip and sets to undoing the knots.

"I'm going to go," Zayn says when she's freed herself, not unkindly.

Liam looks up at her with big wet eyes, pleading. She looks blurry; her eyes are glassy and shining, devoid of anything Zayn can recognize. Sadness doesn't last long in this state, she tells herself to shake the guilt off.

"Don't go," Liam murmurs, sounding surprisingly sober. Her nails, blunt and unpainted, are pressing down on Zayn's pulse point. Zayn can feel her heart racing soundly beneath her top, and she wonders if the beat could leak through her skin and into Liam's, electricity fizzing between them in crackling sparks.

Zayn looks down. She waits for a few more seconds, then disappears when Liam's not looking like the coward she is. 

"Sorry," she whispers to the teeming silence when she’s sure Liam can't hear.

*

Zayn is drunk.

"I'm drunk," she says, falling into Louise's lap and wrapping her arms around Louise's neck. 

"I can see that, doll," Louise chuckles, smoothing a hand down Zayn's arm. It makes Zayn startle. "Any particular reason why?"

"Since when do I need a reason to get drunk?" Zayn says. It's not like she can say, _Liam Payne kissed me but then I saw her and Daniel Peazer making out in the kitchen, and he had a hand under her sweater._

"Mm," Louise says, but she doesn't pry. Zayn hates how she can always tell.

"D'you want to dance?" she slurs. Louise looks like she wants to say no, but Zayn knows there's nothing she likes more than this, dancing and drinking and being crazy, losing herself in the euphoria. She's counting on it, to tell the truth. 

"Yeah, okay," Louise says eventually. Zayn stumbles up drunkenly and reaches a hand that Louise doesn't take. It's better for everyone, really – they'd probably both have fallen over.

Zayn turns around to say something to Aiden (who somehow migrated to the same couch as Louise, how about that) but she's making out with Matt as though her life depends on it, so she gives up. It's a little creepy, this thing with Matt – he's in sixth form and a year late and _nineteen_ , but he's also sort of cute in a gruffy geek way and they look pretty fucking happy, so Zayn's not going to judge. She wishes she was half as good as Aiden when it comes to relationships, and Aiden once dated a guy who turned out to be a member of a _sect_.

She slides opposite Louise on the dancefloor. Their fingers touch and it sends sparks running over Zayn's sweaty skin. She ought to be used to it, what with them being best friends and spending pretty much every minute of their time together, but the flirting and the undercurrent of sexual tension always sets her teeth on edge, makes her want to do _something_. She doesn't, though. She doesn't know if waiting for Louise to make the first move is really a good idea, but she’s not sure she could take being rejected.

Louise smirks down at her in the darkness, her eyes a frozen high sea, and Zayn thinks, _that's it, something's going to happen_. Her brain's running overdrive. Her skin feels like it's thrumming with energy, and when Louise’s hands land on her hips she almost startles. She relaxes into it instead, though, the pleasant feeling of Louise's fingernails pressing into her flesh. _Harder_ , Zayn wants to say. She wants bruises.

They dance for a while, getting closer and closer until they're chest to chest, Zayn breathing hotly in the damp skin of Louise's neck. Louise slides a leg between Zayn's and it's nice, strange but nice, arousal throbbing in Zayn's lower stomach and she has trouble remembering that Louise is a friend because right now she seems alluring and exotic with her heavily made-up eyes and deep, heady perfume.

Louise turns Zayn around slowly as a new song starts, plastering herself against her back. They fit perfectly, bodies molding together like they were made to – but maybe that's everyone, Zayn thinks. Still, there's something hypnotic and deeply satisfying about the way their hips slot like pieces of a puzzle. Louise drags her hands up and down Zayn's sides, thumbs brushing the underside of Zayn’s breasts. Zayn feels hot and hypersensitive – she wants to tell Louise to cut it out and get on with it, _do_ something, for God's sake. She can feel Louise's smile in her hair and her warmth, radiating from behind (her breasts, peaked nipples pressing against Zayn's back because Louise never wears bras, her hips, gyrating slowly -)

"'m gonna get a cigarette," Louise says, her voice rough and her eyes dark, when she pulls away. She licks her lips. Zayn is mesmerized. "Wanna come with?"

Zayn is sixteen, but she isn't afraid of much – and how could she be afraid of Louise, who’s been nothing but nice, educational, gentle? Sure, she's also dangerous, older and exciting – she smells like punk music and smoke and perfume and sex and Zayn knows what's going to happen if she says yes, more or less. But she wants to. She doesn't need labels. She wants to do what makes her feel good, and she's pretty sure going outside with Louise fits into that category.

"Yeah," she answers in a shouted whisper.

Louise brings a finger up to Zayn's temple. Zayn's breath hitches in her throat. Louise looks like she's hesitating for a second, and then she collects a sweat drop on her finger and licks it off her finger slowly, all the while keeping her eyes fixed into Zayn's, the corner of her mouth quirked in a smile. Zayn stares – she wonders dazedly if it shouldn’t feel gross, but the foreground of her mind is entirely occupied with blaring arousal. _She's tasting me_ , she thinks, and somethings jumps in her stomach, hot and imperious, a sort of musical blend of _meherherme_.

The garden is quiet and damp as Louise leans against the brick wall, shining with early morning dew. The music seeps through the porous walls, pumping remotely behind them. Zayn tries to pick the instruments out, tries to tune her body to the sizzling guitar and the deep bass. It feels good. Louise is looking at her, she can tell, her eyes boring into the skin of Zayn's cheek as she lights her cigarette, a hand curling over her mouth to shield the flame from the soft wind.

She sucks on it once, twice, blows the smoke out. Zayn breathes it in – she’s always liked the smell of cigarettes more than actual smoking, the heavy, acrid scent. She watches Louise's lipstick stain the orange end of the fag, marking it.

"Come here," Louise says eventually, fingers drumming on her thigh as though she’s too exhausted to reach out. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, but Zayn can't determine if it's desire or fatigue.

Zayn moves forward; it's wonderfully easy to melt into Louise’s body, and Louise smiles, smiles – Zayn feels like she's not sixteen but this universal age that doesn't understand women and repeatedly falls prey to their mysteries. Louise sucks on her cigarette again, and then – then she curls a loose arm around Zayn's shoulder, still holding her cigarette so close it’s probably burning the fabric of Zayn's jacket, almost touching her skin, and with the other hand presses two fingers under Zayn's chin.

"You've done that before, yeah?" she asks softly. Zayn nods. She hasn't; Louise knows it. 

But it doesn't matter – not now, and not when Louise presses her mouth to Zayn's, exhales the smoke against Zayn's teeth and tongue. Zayn doesn't think she's ever seen her eyes this close –  shining and blue like a fucking promise.

Louise pulls away and Zayn blows the smoke in the empty space between them. Louise darts her tongue to try and collect some of it, and the playful flash of pink breaks the last boundary that kept Zayn from pressing her into the wall and kissing her senseless.

Louise kisses back.

"There, there, darling," she says, stroking Zayn's hair though the kiss. Zayn sighs in the creases of her lips. 

*

"That was nice," Zayn says when she comes down and falls against the pillows, her head still fuzzy with fading sparks. She wonders if orgasms have secondary effects; she feels like she's lost twenty percent of her intellectual functions in one go. It's... dizzying.

"Yeah," Louise says with a little smile, resting her cheek against Zayn's thigh for a moment. "You thirsty?"

Zayn hadn't realised before, but she is. She’s really fucking thirsty, actually. "Yeah," she says. She looks around. It's strange to be in Louise's room, the one where they've studied and smoked and laughed so many times, and have it smell of sex and sweat and everything they've done tonight that is so different from before.

Louise comes back with a glass of water, still stark naked. Zayn lets her eyes run over her tattoo-covered skin, keeping herself from herself from blushing when Louise's eyes catch her and she quirks an amused eyebrow. She really is beautiful. "You're beautiful," Zayn says before she can think about it twice.

Louise looks surprised. "Oh, thanks, darling," she says, taking a sip of water. "You too." She hands the glass to Zayn.

The silence lasts a few minutes, the time for Louise to put on a Ramones CD, and Zayn's starting to doze off when Louise says, "It's not going to be awkward though, right?"

Zayn's feeling warm and sated – Louise fucked the sadness and melancholy out of her and Zayn can't think of a better friend. A vaguely alarm voice in the back of her mind screams that her mum's going to kill her tomorrow, that she could probably call her, at least, but she's tired and so, so comfortable. She yawns. "No, of course not," she says sleepily.

She can see Louise smiling softly from the corner of her eye. "Good," she says, and she cuddles up to Zayn, pressing her naked breasts against Zayn's back. Sixteen, Zayn thinks as her mind fades to black. She'll forget Liam Payne.

*

She does.

*

(Her friendship bracelet tears one morning while she’s in the shower. It comes apart thread by thread, red blue green and the odd yellow, like a bunch of electrical wires connected to her heart. Zayn watches them whirl around the drain for a few seconds, hypnotized. Then she shakes her head, folds down, picks them up and drops them neatly in the bin.)

*

"Aren't you excited?" Louise asks, because Louise is always excited for everything. It should be annoying, and it sometimes is; but most of the time it's mostly adorable. 

"Not really," Zayn shrugs.

Louise swats her arm. "You should be," she says, stealing the cigarette off Zayn's fingers and taking a drag on it. "It's nice."

Zayn thinks _I'll be near you, at least_ but doesn't actually say it. It's one thing to sleep with your best friend and it's another to say something like that. Zayn just doesn't want it to get messy, and she knows Louise doesn't want that either. It's true, though – they'll be closer, and it's a good thing because Zayn was getting fucking bored without Louise. After eighteen years, Bradford is starting to feel really fucking small.

“You’re gonna do English! And art!” Louise intones, nuzzling her neck.

Zayn grumbles, but actually she’s sort of smiling, because, well – she wasn’t sure her parents would let her do art, but they were came to terms with it eventually, even though it did take a little convincing. 

“Yeah, whatever,” she says anyway. “People used to make a big deal of secondary school, and look how ‘rad’ it's been.”

Louise chuckles, settling deeper into her side. It’s one of the things Zayn likes about her, how she just doesn't take any bullshit, always insists on being happy about everything even though she listens to the angriest music in the universe. Not that Zayn's criticizing; she loves that music too. It's just weird – but then, Louise is one of the weirdest people Zayn knows. She sounds cool when you meet her, but it's just a facade.

Zayn grinds her cigarette stub under the sole of her boot. It leaves a little black mark on the ground, and Zayn tries to brush that away with her foot too, but it clings. She huffs. Louise laughs at her and calls her a princess. 

They spend the afternoon like that, smoking and watching reruns of _Friends_ until Aiden shows up and sniffles all over Zayn's jacket for twenty minutes because 'Matt is an idiot and I hate him, I could fucking kill him' even though they all – Aiden included – know that their PDA will be back to its usual level of disgusting adorableness by the end of the week.

It's Zayn’s last summer in this fucking town, though, and she’s always hated it but now she wants to exhaust it so there are no regrets at all when she leaves, only the sweet empty feeling of coming back to being a stranger. She tries to go to all the places, the ones she's allowed to and the ones she's not, the ones she never though to visit becaue she didn't think they would be interesting; sometimes she brings Louise with her and sometimes she doesn't. Some places choke her up and she has to sit on the gravel and fight back the tears, because she was a fucking stupid kid who carved her and her best friend's name into a tree. It's not even pretty, all messy and uneven. Aiden would probably yell at her that she's hurting trees, but just. _Fuck._

She sits in the muddy grass and stares at the names a little more than is probably necessary, then puts her headphones on and clicks on her most depressing playlist. She has to bite her knuckles not to cry, but she really doesn't like crying. It gets messy too, and it doesn't fix anything, does it? Zayn's got more wits than that.

Louise goes with her to the ice-cream truck the day after and they steal a pair of blonde twins' place in the queue, ignoring their childish snarls. Mrs Henderson throws them a glare over her stroller. They choose the flavors they never dared to try because they looked too disgusting, Zayn the lemon one whose color is somewhere between some really worrying chemical content and vomit and Louise the soy peanut butter one.

They walk to the park, swinging hands like little kids who still think they can fly. Their fingers brush a couple of times; Zayn can't help glancing over at Louise from the corner of her eyes to try and guess what she's feeling, but Louise is too busy lapping at her ice-cream. Sometimes Zayn wishes she could be like her, unconcerned and brash and bold.

Turns out the lemon isn't bad but the soy peanut butter is really fucking horrid, as Louise's intuition as a kid had foreseen. She brags about it for a few minutes before stealing Zayn's cone and starting biting big chunks of it, cringing when the cold hits her teeth. Zayn lets her, smiling – she wasn't that hungry anymore, anyway.

They end up making out on the bench that's mostly shielded by the bushes in the far right corner, where no one goes except the kids who smoke pot and the depressed housewives who need nature and realitve silence to have their breakdowns. It's not like they're a secret, not really, and they sure as hell aren't ashamed, but it's just so much simpler without everyone asking questions. Zayn's never been good at answering questions.

Louise rests her hand at the base of Zayn's neck, stroking the hair that curls under her ear with light fingers. It's short now, shaved on the sides and stiff and sticky on the top, kind of like a mohawk, but Zayn asked the hairdresser to leave a few strands around her ears. She's always clinging to memories, and this time isn't any different. She's like that, Zayn – she never really leaves anywhere.

"It's gonna be fine," Louise says. She lowers her mouth to the sinews at the juncture of Zayn's neck and her shoulder and starts sucking a lazy bruise there. "You'll see," she mouths wetly against the skin. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

Zayn could say that she's not afraid; she’s tired of nothing ever happening, that's all, she's tired of everything, she's – she's not afraid, not really. She doesn't say any of that, of course.

"Yeah," she says instead, tightening her fingers in Louise's hair, and wonders if her lipstick will leave a trace.

*

University is everything Zayn expected and somehow manages to be entirely different at the same time. Zayn was an angry teenager but it didn’t keep from turning her essays in in time; still, she still wonders what how she got here when she gets off the bus, watching U of London’s towers weigh a long shadow over her. _At least we’re together_ , she remembers, and sets in search of Louise. 

She finds her easily enough, the few cell-based mishaps notwithstanding (this place is fucking _gigantic _, Zayn is never going to find her way), and after that it all goes more or less smoothly. Zayn gets settled in her dorm, sits on her bed and stares at the wall blankly for a few minutes. It's not that she's unhappy, not exactly. It's just that she has trouble letting things go, and then they weigh on her chest like a fucking elephant who decided it was a good spot for an early retirement. That's all. But she'll get over it, she always does.__

__She straightens her collar and takes a look at herself in the mirror._ _

__"You're fit," she tells her reflection, and then laughs, wrinkling her nose at how weird it sounds._ _

__She is, though – well, she's not hideous, and now that she no longer thinks that fashion stops at the color black she dresses well enough. She's not stupid and she's not ugly and she's not friendless and all in all, her life is pretty swell._ _

__She fistbumps her reflection, like, _see, no need to be so mopey_. The her in the mirror grimaces, _you're so lame_._ _

__"We're gonna make it," she tells herself, trying to sound convinced. She's a warrior._ _

__The reflection raises an eyebrow at her._ _

__Zayn ignores it, though; as a matter of fact, her conviction that everything's going to be okay only gets stronger a few minutes later, when Louise walks in the room without bothering to knock and slides a hand under Zayn's shirt and over her stomach from behind, breathing hotly in her ear._ _

__*_ _

__In the end it's not that hard. It takes awhile for Zayn to realise that she's no longer the weird kid, that there are people a lot weirder than her and that now she's just another of the girls with the large ponchos with weird prints, a cigarette always dangling from their lips, who sometimes put on glittery gold eyeshadow when they're not feeling too lazy to do it; but after that she starts fitting in without even having to think about it, because apparently that's how things work when you're in university._ _

__She writes essays and goes to parties and gets drunk and kisses more girls than she can remember the name of. She takes to watching them like you watch puzzles you want to solve, trying to guess the nooks and belts in their dresses and jeans to figure out where she's going to cling when she pulls them close, breathing in their late-adolescent scent, bitter smoke and cheap beer with the sharp flowery tinge of fading perfume._ _

__Louise still comes with her when she gets new tattoos and they celebrate each addition to Zayn's sleeve with cheap flavored vodka. Louise makes a game of choosing the weirdest, most disgusting flavors, and most of the time they end up throwing up vanilla puke in the loo of Zayn's dorm, sprawling over each other in her narrow bed and laughing until it feels like pennies rattling in their lungs._ _

__Louise and Aiden introduce her to the friends she made in their first year, girls and boys who welcome her with distracted flickers of eyes from under their heavy eyelashes. They're tattoos and piercings and ironically displayed intelligence, too-thin wrists only peekingout from time to time in slivers of skin from under their thousands of bangles, all of which have a significance, of course. Zayn once spends an entire night drunk in Hyde park with Nick explaining to her the precise mythology of his eighty-nine bracelets._ _

__Zayn learns their names one by one, the geography of her new world: there's Harry, the girl who always looks sleepy with her sharp green eyes and her lazy smiles, permanently lost in ugly sweaters; Niall, the sporty laddish girl, with her snapbacks and her sunny smile; Nick, the excitable media major who's friends with the entire school and his best friend-slash-partner in crime Ian; Caroline, the slowly grinning hottie with the long limbs; Rita, the party girl – and so much more of them still, coming and going, tight and remote, getting drunk together and finishing their essays at five a.m. over breakfast, eyes still full of sleep and stinking of drunken sex._ _

__Zayn didn’t expect to, but she belongs; and if they don’t exactly welcome her, they let her carve her spot in their communal embrace wordlessly, branding her skin with quiet friendships. They grow on each other until they’re part of each other’s bodies, probably a lung, black with smoke and unsaid words. Zayn draws them sneakily sometimes, when they’re all sprawled in the grass outside the school, bantering about music and school gossip. She ends up loving them a little more than necessary._ _

__She stops sleeping with Louise when Louise shows up at lunch one day with her hand locked tightly in Harry's. From there on it's like a permanent honeymoon phase, the two of them always grinning at each other and PDA-ing all over the place given the slightest shred of opportunity. Zayn doesn't mind; they're almost absurdly cute, and Louise looks happier than she's ever been, has the same stupid smile on her face than Aiden and Matt still do, like they find everything in each other. It frightens Zayn a little._ _

__(Though it also has its drawbacks, like that time Louise barrels into her room one night, smelling of cheap tequila and emotional breakdown._ _

__"Zayn," she says, shaking her awake. "I think I'm in love with her."_ _

__"And it couldn't wait until after three in the morning the night before I have to turn in my mid-term econ paper, right?" Zayn asks, her voice still hoarse with sleep._ _

__"Zayn," Louise says, taking Zayn's hands in hers. "This is important."_ _

__Zayn sighs and straightens up into a sitting position, crossing her legs beneath her. She can feel her heels digging into the back of her thighs, but that'll have to do for now. Let no one say that she's not a good friend._ _

__"What do I do now?" Louise asks, sounding genuinely panicked. Zayn can't for the life of her understand why: that she's in love with her is obvious to everyone except her and maybe Harry (though Zayn wouldn't bet on that), and it's equally obvious that Harry feels the same._ _

__Zayn squints at her in the darkness, feigning to rub her jaw to hide a jawn. She reaches for the lamp with one hand and rubbing soothing circles on Louise's back with the other. "I don't know, tell her?"_ _

__After a lot – too much – more convincing, Louise finally agrees that this is, in fact, the best solution, and does it the morning after. It goes as well as Zayn had anticipated, Louise and Harry don't come out Louise's room for three days and Zayn gets a D – on her econ mid-term.)_ _

__It's a good year, all in all – Zayn's lines get sharper, and as she draws her life weaves itself around her ribs in tight wool purls. It's not belonging quite yet, not entirely, but it's close enough. Zayn finds herself watching asinine TV in her dorm with Louise next to her, Harry curled into her side, Nick and Aiden (yeah, that's a thing now apparently. From what Zayn's heard it's cool with Matt and they're all in it together, but it's not like she's got to ask) snuggling at the feet of the couch, and not minding. It’s actually pretty good, as far as college experiences go._ _

__Once Harry pulls her aside, long fingers closing around her wrist. Zayn follows._ _

__"Hey," Harry says. She lights a Malboro, the embers reflecting in her lazy eyes._ _

__"Hey," Zayn answers, stealing a cigarette from Harry's pack. "D'you want something?"_ _

__Zayn's not sure she’s ever seen Harry look nervous, but here it is. She digs her fingers in the wool of her beanie, pushing it down. "Yeah, yeah, sure." She wipes her palms on her jeans. "Just wanted to make sure you didn't mind. You know. Me and Lou."_ _

__Zayn almost laughs, remembering Louise's alcohol-fueled breakdown. "Why would I mind?"_ _

__Harry shrugs. "Lou told me you used to..." She makes a vague gesture Zayn supposes is supposed to mean 'fuck'. She wouldn't have pegged Harry for a prude. "And I know we're a little intense sometimes."_ _

__Zayn does laugh at that. "Yeah, you are."_ _

__Harry punches her shoulder weakly, but there's still something in her eyes, a faint tinge of soft worry. Zayn shrugs; she never really got why people thought it was so horrible being alone._ _

__"I'm okay, Haz," she says. "Lou and I, we were just passing time, it wasn't anything romantic or whatever. We were in high school, we were both bored and lesbians, it happened. You've nothing to fear from me."_ _

__"I wasn't –" Harry starts, then she blushes._ _

__"Of course you weren't," Zayn teases. "Your love is pure and will last forever or some shit like that, right?"_ _

__“Some shit like that,” Harry mumbles, smiling. This time it's sweeter: she's already somewhere else, back in her bubble now that she knows she doesn't have anything to worry about. Zayn can't really blame her._ _

__"You sap," she says anyway._ _

__Harry laughs, low-pitched and ferocious. Her teeth are very white._ _

__"Hey, Haz," Zayn calls back as she turns around, preparing to leave, "would you model for me sometime?" It's completely unexpected, as much for Harry, she suspects, as it is for her; she didn't even know what was going to come out of her mouth. But Harry's actually kind of a perfect fit – she fit, she doesn't mind being naked, and most of the time she's content with just not moving and letting things happen around her._ _

__"I'd pay you, of course, but it's just. I'd prefer it to be you than someone I don't know, I guess?"_ _

__Harry looks pleased. She takes a long drag of her Malboro, filling her mouth with smoke. "Yeah, why not?" she says, smoke pouring out in long white wisps, and Zayn knows it means yes._ _

__Zayn is easily the least physical of all of them, but the idea of drawing Harry sends a buzz coursing through her veins, and she takes a step forward to wrap her in an embrace. "Thanks," she says in her neck._ _

__Harry squeezes back. "You're welcome." Zayn suspects she's even smiling against the skin of her shoulder._ _

__*_ _

__"You're not coming back?"_ _

__"I am, mum, just not for the whole summer, yeah? There's a festival Louise and I want to go here in August. But I'm coming for ten days in July, I promise."_ _

__"Okay," Trisha mumbles. "I always said this girl had a bad influence on you. First – and now this..."_ _

__Zayn winces a little at that. Her parents didn't have drastic reactions to her being a lesbian, but it wasn't exactly fun and games either. She didn't expect them to be perfectly okay with it, but there's no learning not to hurt when your parents drop their eyes and say they'll never understand. _If you're happy_ , they said. _I'm trying_ , Zayn wanted to tell them._ _

__"Look, mum, i'll book my train ticket and tell you the exact time so you can pick me up, okay?" she says._ _

__"Okay,” Trisha sighs. “I love you, pumpkin. Take good care of yourself, okay? Eat vegetables. And drink a lot, we don't know how hot it's going to be, I heard people can die if they're too dehydrated."_ _

__" _Old_ people, mum," Zayn corrects fondly. _ _

__Her mother tut-tuts, as though the precision is entirely unrelevant. "Yes, well, better safe than sorry, right?"_ _

__Zayn sighs, biting a smile in the inside of her cheek. LouiseandHarry throw her an amused glance. "Of course, mum. Kiss the boys for me?"_ _

__"Will do. I love you, pumpkin."_ _

__"I love you too. See you very soon."_ _

__Zayn hangs up first (otherwise those conversations never end) and rests her chin on her drawn-up knees, letting the homesickness overwhelm over her for a second. It washes over her like a tide, and suddenly her bed is too small and her walls aren't as familiar as they were a minute ago, she wants to go home, home... but it ebbs as soon as it'd risen, and the hollow in her chest fills up again, salted water seeping in the marrow of her bones. Zayn loves letting her emotions take the reins sometimes, when she's tired of control – loves the come-and-go, the melancholy speed at which they rush through her body only to leave her dizzy and resounding, as though she were nothing but a human-shaped gong being struck repeatedly, the wind whistling side-dish songs in her delicate metal carvings._ _

__She turns back to Louise, smiling at her over the back of the couch. Jay has an apartment in London and she’s letting them use it for the summer, the whole group of them, tank-topped tattooed girls and boys, coming and going at all hours of the day and night. It’s pretty swell, as far as summers go._ _

__(Louise and Harry are moving out of the dorms and getting a flat together next year, which means Zayn might get a flat for herself, too. She doesn’t mind – she’s too busy being happy for them. Sometimes, when she looks at them, she thinks that maybe love can work, can be as magical and perfect as it’s cracked up to be. It never lasts, though.)_ _

__She drapes herself over the back of the couch, angling her head so she can look at Aiden, Matt, Louise and Harry, all lying on one of the mattresses on the floor in a tangle of limbs. Caroline and Nick are sleeping in one of the guest rooms – they were up partying late in some swanky hipster club – and Ian and Rita are lost somewhere in nature, as are Niall and her new best friend Josh from the basketball team._ _

__Zayn reaches a hand to catch her drawing pad._ _

__"Don't move," she says._ _

__Aiden chuckles, burying her nose in Matt's shoulder. Matt shrieks. It's not even remotely manly._ _

__"God, Zayn," Harry groans. "Don’t you ever get tired of our ugly mugs?"_ _

__"Speak for yourself," Louise pipes up indignantly, slapping her thigh._ _

__Zayn holds back whatever cheesy remark is fizzling on her tongue._ _

__"Don't move," she repeats, laughing when Louise twists in a Rose-in-Titanic pose, thrusting her chest out._ _

__Eventually Zayn gives up on drawing them, smudges a thumb over a hint of cheekbone at the centre of the page, not sure whose it is. She'll have the time to draw after, when they're not looking; besides, it's not like she doesn't already have hundreds of drawings of Harry (and Louise, in a lesser measure) in her folders._ _

__The girls always tease her about being a hotshot artist, but Zayn's starting to seriously consider it. Well, not being like, famous, but her art teacher told her about a gallery downtown that would maybe accept to exhibit her stuff at some point, maybe next year. She hasn’t told the gang yet, but she’s pretty excited._ _

__Louise makes grabby hands at her and Zayn pretends to grumble as she climbs over the back of the couch and falls heavily over them, ignoring Aiden’s protests that she’s ‘a bloody _whale_ ’. It doesn’t keep Zayn from hugging her, though, and they’re all wrapped up in a communal embrace when Nick and Caroline finally make it out of the guest room, sleep-rumpled and shaggy-haired. _ _

__Nick raises an eyebrow at them. “Getting started without us, I see,” he grins._ _

__“Grimmy’s feeling left out,” Aiden laughs, at the same time as Caroline grabs Nick’s forearm. “C’m’ere, we can give each other affection if they don’t deign to wake us up for group hugs,” she pouts, and pecks him lightly on the lips before wrapping him in an exaggerated embrace, miming climbing over him._ _

__Louise chokes on laughter as Nick lets out a surprised ‘oof’ but goes along with it, hoisting Caroline up on his hips. “Not before breakfast, darling,” he says laughing, and lets her slide back down._ _

__“You’ve been pornographic enough,” Louise judges, her head cocked to the side. “You’re allowed to join the cuddle.”_ _

__Nick makes an exaggerated fanboy noise and flails, running over to them and crushing half of them as he sits on top of their human puppy-pile._ _

__“What about that diet, Grimmy?” Matt groans. Nick whacks his face._ _

__Caroline considers all of them, a smile quirking her perfect mouth. “Join you in a jiff,” she says flippantly, and then, as she’s disappearing into the kitchen, "Last one in the kitchen gets no pancakes!”_ _

__They all scramble up, laughing._ _

__(Later, when Niall finally comes in, clutching at her head, and complains that they haven’t left any for her, they all burst out laughing. She frowns at them.)_ _

__*_ _

__The summer is at its peak when Zayn comes back to Bradford. It weighs on her back as she steps off the train and into her mother's waiting arms, breathing in her familiar scent. Trisha makes her recount her year almost day by day during the ride home, despite having seen her for the last holidays and having had her on the phone nearly every day. Zayn groans a bit but obliges, nodding when Trisha makes the odd commentary, unable to keep her smiles from breaking out._ _

__Her brothers crush her with hugs as she walks in the door, only to frown away from her kisses when she tries to hug them back, shrieking. Her dad kisses her on the cheek. "Welcome home, honey," he says, and Zayn feels like a prodigal child._ _

__Once she's past the homemade food and not having to do her own laundry, though, there's still not a lot to do in Bradford. Zayn texts with Louise until she blows her off to go have sex with Harry (they're in Amsterdam, decided to go backpack around Europe for a few weeks. Their plan, if Zayn understood it well, is to do that every year until the end of university. Zayn would probably feel left-out if she hadn't seen them off at King's cross, seen their shining eyes and their tangled hands). After a while couch-potato-ing (shut up, that's totally a word) in front of the TV, Zayn decides to get off her ass, puts on a T-shirt and wanders around town._ _

__She knows everything by heart, obviously, so she goes to Aire Guitars to see if there isn't some novelty she hasn't heard of yet. It's not the best record store, definitely not as good as the London ones Nick drags them to every other day, but it'll do for this once._ _

__She's alone in there except for an Asian girl wearing Vans' big purple headphones slung around her necks. Zayn browses for a while, piling CDs and vinyls on her forearms. Aiden has a vinyl player, and the whole gang hangs out at her and Matt's enough to make the vinyls a good investment._ _

__Eventually she decides to go before she's completely broke. When she heads towards the counter, the girl is already there, handing a few crumpled bills to a bored-looking teenager popping gum like it's her only vocation in life. She brushes past Zayn on her way out, and Zayn can't help but shiver a little. Louise was right – she does need to get laid._ _

__"I'll take these," she tells the teenager._ _

__She looks up at her, looking woefully uninterested. Her make-up makes it look as though she got punched in both eyes. "Yeah," she says, popping her gum again._ _

__She shoves the records in a plastic bag and hands them to Zayn. "Thanks," Zayn says as she hands her her money._ _

__The girl takes it and eyes her, clearly thinking, _whatever_. Zayn thinks about laughing, but she's been sixteen and bored out of her mind too, wanting nothing but to put on a pretty dress and heels and go get trashed at house parties, so she keeps it in. _ _

__The Asian girl is still outside when she steps out, leaning against the wall as she sucks on a cigarette. She smirks when Zayn comes out and gestures for her to get closer. Zayn smiles to herself. She walks close, the girl's eyes sliding up on her, her hips, her breasts, her cheeks._ _

__"Waiting for me?" she asks when she gets closer. She catalogues the girl's appearance in her mind – pretty, plump cheeks and sharp cheekbones, hair dyed green with a few blonde dreads here and there. Nose ring. Skirt. Grey eyes._ _

__"Maybe," the girl says. "Want a drag?"_ _

__Maybe they recognize each other, Zayn thinks. Maybe they see it in the way they walk, the way they tilt their head, that they're the same brand of people. Too big for Bradford, West Yorkshire._ _

__"Yeah, okay," she says, and she takes a drag. She tries to decide if she wants to get coffee with the girl and maybe get laid after that, but the summer makes her feel heavy and indistinct. It's probably too late, anyway – she took the cigarette. She just hopes the foreplay won't be too long. Zayn's shite at flirting._ _

__"Right," the girl says. She takes hold of Zayn's bag, opening it without bothering to ask for permission. It’s sort of hot. "What've we got here?"_ _

__She unearths a Cranberries CD, the latest Chairlift and a Jay-Z vinyl. The last one she twirls between her fingers is Belle and Sebastian, _Storytelling_._ _

__"A'right," she drawls. Her fingers slide to Zayn's hips, tapping a quick pulse on the bone. "Your taste isn't too shitty, I guess." Zayn looks up at her, liking something in the way her mouth twists when she smiles, a little tricky. "Want to go back to mine?"_ _

__Zayn is swept in the easy proposal, relieved that she doesn't have to make small talk. She doesn't know what she would have said, to be honest._ _

__"Yeah, sure," she answers._ _

__The girl circles her fingers around Zayn's wrist and tugs ever so slightly, pressing her fingertip down on the big blue vein. Zayn follows, bones liquefied._ _

__*_ _

__It's good sex, all in all. Because it's summer it's not athletic, but it defuses the tension in Zayn's body better – and in a considerably less expensive way – than a physiotherapist session ever could have. The girl – Sonoko; she's Japanese, as it turns out – eats her out and there's fondling all around and then Zayn loses track but it's nice, the feeling of a hard nipple rolling between her fingers and the soft-harsh moans grating her eardrums. She did miss it._ _

__Sonoko puts on the Cranberries CD when they're finished, and they fumble a little more to _Sorry son_ , sharing another cigarette. Zayn lets the music sweep her up and rock her, Sonoko's fingers slipping easily against her clit. They drink cheap white wine and it's a good summer, it's a good summer, it's melancholy and the kind of season Zayn could paint watercolour postcards about. She kind of wants to tell her sixteen-year-old self about it. _See_ , she would say. _It’s not that bad.__ _

__Between two lazy kisses, Sonoko tells her she's studying music at the Conservatory of Bradford. She's still in high school but she doubled up twice, which makes her approximately Zayn's age. Which is good, since Zayn doesn't exactly fancy herself a child-molester._ _

__"Yeah? What instrument do you play?" Zayn asks, sprawled on the bed, her naked skin glowing with sweat._ _

__"Trumpet," Sonoko says. She quips a laugh when Zayn gapes, reveling in her surprise._ _

__"Really? You're not having me on?"_ _

__"Nope," Sonoko says, popping the p. "Cross my heart and hope to die."_ _

__Zayn sniggers. "That explains things," she says, gesturing to her crotch._ _

__Sonoko elbows her in the ribs. "You pig,” she chides, smiling. She stands up._ _

__"Mm," Zayn says, distracted as she pushes the curtains open and looks over at the hard black asphalt outside. "Don't you get bored here?" she asks._ _

__Sonoko comes back with two bottles of water, tossing one at Zayn. "All the fucking time," she says, sitting astride Zayn's hips. The rubbing of their skin makes Zayn whine a little._ _

__"I don't mind being bored, though," Sonoko says as she leans down to swallow Zayn's moans._ _

__Zayn tilts her head in consideration; then Sonoko slips her tongue in her mouth and she focuses on that instead._ _

__*_ _

__She phones her mum to tell her she'll be home late, and Trisha hm-hms at her. Zayn blushes a little – it's still a little weird to think that her mum knows she has sex, no matter how long it's been (and it's not even that long, really). Sonoko hugs her from behind, slipping her tiny palms on Zayn's bare stomach._ _

__"Okay, I'm going, mum," Zayn rushes out as her fingers trail lower. Sonoko chuckles softly in her ear. "Bye."_ _

__"Bye, pumpkin," Trisha says._ _

__Zayn hungs up and turns around, pushing Sonoko backwards and pinning her down on the bed. She circles her wrists easily, with one hand. It sends a little rush of electricity crumpling down her spine._ _

__Sonoko tilts her head. "You're cute when you blush," she says._ _

__Zayn growls at her. "You're cheeky, aren't you?" she says, leaning down to nip at her neck._ _

__"Yeah," Sonoko says, small and breathy._ _

__"Mm," Zayn says, peppering kisses down her stomach. She'd forgotten how good it feels to have a girl in your arms, wriggling and writhing against you, soft and hard and funny and easy. It was easy not to think about it, though, at least when she was too taken with her classes and her drawing and everything else that was going on. She did get laid once or twice, but it was more rushed fucks in club bathrooms than this, the leisurely summer mornings spent in bed, forgetting what day it is. You don't even need to be in love, that's how simple it is._ _

__She comes back up to kiss Sonoko, open-mouthed and hot, soothing the bottom lip, swollen from being bitten, with her tongue. Sonoko moans and Zayn moans back. It makes her think about whales, for some reason, the way they communicate with those elongated, cavernous sounds, and she laughs in Sonoko's mouth._ _

__Sonoko pulls away, frowning slightly. "What?" she asks._ _

__Zayn smoothes a hand down her chest, brushing her breasts softly. "It's not you," she chuckles. "It's fine."_ _

__"No, tell me," Sonoko insists. She's smiling a little, now, like she wants to laugh at the joke too._ _

__"Okay, don't make fun of me," Zayn says, going back to nibbling at Sonoko's throat. Sonoko makes a 'mm' sound, baring her neck for better access. "So," a nip, "I was just thinking," another one, "about, you know, this sound?" She bites at the skin, hard enough to make Sonoko moan again, long and high-pitched. It'll probably leave a bruise, Zayn thinks proudly. She doesn't think Sonoko minds. "It's like whales."_ _

__Sonoko bursts out laughing. Zayn resurfaces, a little offended at the start, and then laughing with her, laying her head on Sonoko's heaving chest. "What even, mate?" Sonoko asks. "You're so weird."_ _

__She tangles her fingers around Zayn's jaw and pulls her up, slotting their mouths together messily._ _

__"You love it," Zayn says, and it's cheesy, Sonoko chuckles in her mouth, scrapes her fingers at the back of her head, slides them down to the imprint the bra left on her skin, fingertips tracing the faintly red lines._ _

__"Might," Sonoko says._ _

__They make out for a bit, and then Zayn slithers down Sonoko's flat belly and goes to town, whispers, "I'm going to make you come so hard," against the crease of her thigh._ _

__"You can try," Sonoko says, teasing, and well – Zayn's always loved a challenge._ _

__*_ _

__On her last day in the city, Zayn goes back to her old high school with Sonoko. A couple of guys whistle at them on their way past, probably the combination of Sonoko's green hair and Zayn's dark skin, their laced fingers, bare legs. Sonoko gives them the finger and throws her arms around Zayn's neck, kissing her deeply just for show. Zayn kisses back but breaks it off soon enough. She agrees with the feeling, she's just never been one for useless provocation. She gets enough PDA with Louise and Harry (and Matt and Aiden, with the new addition of Nick, God) as it is._ _

__They sit on the gravel by the gates. The air smells of burnt cement and short, yellow grass; they lean against each other and trade stories from high school, the less depressing ones, or else they transform the crippling self-doubt in charming awkwardness, following the time-honoured tradition._ _

__They're about half through the flask of orange juice and tequila concotion Sonoko brought when she leans against Zayn's shoulder, breathing in her neck. "Used to know you in high school," she says._ _

__Zayn scrunches up her eyebrows. "I don't remember you," she says as apologetically as she can given that she's drunk off her ass._ _

__"I was two years below you," Sonoko says, eyes unfocused, watching into the horizon like the washed blue is holding some sort of secret. "Had a mad crush on you."_ _

__Zayn laughs, hoarse and off-balanced, tipping down to peck Sonoko on the lips. She won't have it, though, grips Zayn's nape and deepens the kiss, thrusting her tongue forward a bit messily. Zayn can clearly hold her liquor better than her._ _

__When Zayn pulls away, she asks, "So you're, what, seventeen, then?" It's weird not to know someone you've just spent a whole two days with beyond the physical – to know the exact shape of her swivelly hips but not her last name._ _

__"Nah," Sonoko says, drawing it out on her tongue. "Repeated twice."_ _

__"Oh," Zayn says, and they stay like that for a few minutes, tipped against each other, sharp bones digging into flesh, little pinpricks of pleasure-pain as they nip at each other's lips. "So you had a crush on me?" Zayn whispers against Sonoko's lips. It makes her shiver._ _

__"Massive, yeah," she says, "but you were always with that Liam girl, so I figured..." Zayn tries to ignore the sudden lump in her stomach. It's been _years_. God. Get a grip, Zayn. "Were you, like, together?"_ _

__Her cloud-grey eyes are piercing. It turns Zayn on and frightens her at the same time. "No," she says. "Sorry." She thinks for a second. "D'you remember Louise, though?"_ _

__Sonoko frowns._ _

__"The one with all the piercings and tattoos and stuff. Older than us," Zayn prompts._ _

__"Oh, right," Sonoko says, nodding – and then, as it sinks in, her eyes widen. " _Really_?"_ _

__Zayn grins. "Yeah, totally. She's one of my best mates now."_ _

__Sonoko bites sharp at the juncture of her jaw and neck. "Score," she intones, low and seductive._ _

__Zayn slips her fingers in her hair, the rough hair of the dreads almost chafing against her skin. "Yeah."_ _

__They make out languidly for a few minutes, and then Sonoko straightens up all of a sudden, pointing at something in the distance. "Look!" she says. "Speak of the devil."_ _

__Zayn's head swivels so hard she thinks she might actually get whiplash, but it's true, here she is, Liam Payne in all her glory – jeans and dress shirt, scuffing her ballet flats in the dirt. Zayn wonders what she's doing here, but after a second she dismisses the thought: probably a pilgrimage to the grounds of her past glory, that wouldn't be unlike her (it would), or else she's working Admissions for the summer or something. She looks so familiar still, Zayn can't help wanting to run up to her and hug her, breathe her in._ _

__"Yeah," she says instead, desperately trying to get Sonoko's attention back so she can let it go._ _

__"D'you think we should go say hello?" Sonoko says, completely oblivious to Zayn's discomfort. "It'd be fun, we could like, reminisce and shit -"_ _

__"No," Zayn says, simply._ _

__Sonoko isn't stupid; this time she gets it almost instantly, looking down at Zayn with a little surprise in her eyes. "Okay," she says eventually._ _

__Zayn kisses her, hard and aching and everything they haven't been, and when she opens her eyes again Liam's gone. It's probably better that way._ _


	2. Chapter 2

  
**part ii.**

_is there something more you need to say? / i haven't loved you in a long, long time, so why do i feel this way?_ ([x](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b0okSCBqw18))  


  
The new year looks like the one before except maybe more familiar. Zayn doesn't have to ask for directions when she goes to classes, she knows how to get out of the most annoying lectures and she can look down at first years. It's funny the first week, and then it grows old, of course. Her classes are more interesting, though, even though it's hard to lose the habit of doodling in her notebook. 

Their little gang has a favourite hangout, a coffeeshop-slash-library called _The Bean_. It's homely, with apparent wooden beams and soft, deep armchairs. Zayn likes to sink into them with her legs folded beneath her, her drawing pad propped up on her knee. She draws the people who come into the shop, half-listening as Louise invents lives for each one of them. 

"This one, right," she's saying, giggling when Harry kisses her neck. Zayn rolls her eyes. "This one has to be an anthropology student. Look at his shoes."

Zayn does look up at that. The boy in question is fairly normal-looking, with brown eyes and shoes that look like, well – shoes. "How can you tell that from his _shoes_?" she asks incredulously. She should know, by now, never to ask Louise this kind of questions but what can she say, she never learns. 

"Look at how shiny they are," Louise says, pointing to them unsubtly. Zayn smacks her arm weakly in an attempt to make her stop behaving like a three year old. As it turns out, Harry kissing her works better. 

"You have to be really interested in human nature to have shoes this shiny," Louise declares when they're finished, nuzzling into Harry's neck. 

"That doesn't make any sense," Zayn says. 

"Does too," Louise pouts. 

Zayn ducks back into her pad to hide her smile. She starts drawing the boy almost mechanically, smoothing the graphite with her fingertips to render the slight shine on his shoes. Louise sniggers at her from over Harry's shoulder. Zayn gives her the finger. 

"Oh, by the way, Zayn," Harry says, disentangling her limbs from Louise's slightly – at least enough for them not to look like a human squid. 

Zayn hms interrogatively, not looking up from her pad. Harry doesn't take offence from it – but then again, she rarely takes offence from anything – and leans back into Louise's chest. "I don't think I'll be able to do the modelling thing this year, sorry. I checked this morning, I'll have too many classes to make time."

Zayn does look up at that. She starts gnawing on her pen absently, frowning when the bitter taste of wood and graphite registers. She should really stop doing that. "Shite," she says. It puts her in a bit of a sticky situation – her drawing classes start in a few days and she has to have a model by then if she doesn't want to be late in the class; she'll have to put flyers as soon as possible and – "Oh, shite."

"Don't worry," Harry says lazily, patting Zayn's knee. "I met a girl a few days ago, she's in history but apparently she needs cash, and from what I saw her hours should be okay."

"The one you told me about?" Louise chimes in. "I thought she was boring."

Harry shrugs fluidly. "Yeah, whatever. It's not like she needs to be a party animal to stay still and shut up, innit?"

Louise laughs. Zayn frowns – she liked working with Harry, and it's not that she doesn't want to socialize, but she really doesn't. Besides, she has to work with that girl, and if she's boring... maybe she should ask Alice from her Mr Gibsons' class. She's not ideal, but she could do. 

"I don't know," she says, trying to convey her hesitation without being too rude. 

Of course, it flies completely over Harry's head (that or she ignores it, which is about as likely). "No, you have to meet her," she says, swatting Louise's nose. "She's really pretty and, like, calm. I'm sure you two will get on. Come on, try to meet her as least! You can say no after that, she won't be offended."

Zayn is pretty sure Harry's lying at this point, but it's not like she has any other choice at the moment. She shrugs. "Just one meeting," she says, narrowing her eyes at Harry. "And if I don't like her, I don't care if she's poor, I'm not working with her."

Harry slips an arm around the nape of Zayn's neck, pulling her close. Zayn groans, trying to keep her pad from tumbling down on the floor. "Thank you," she says enthusiastically. 

Zayn slips free from the hug, flipping her hair back into place. "Maniac," she says, readjusting her glasses (Louise calls them her 'hipster glasses') on her nose, but she's smiling, so the point is kind of moot. 

"You love me," Harry says with finality. 

Zayn can't help but smile at that – she really does. She doesn't know how it happened, but she's glad it did. She loves them all, really, probably more than is healthy. She doesn't care. 

"She better be good," she grumbles, but Harry's already back to making out with Louise. Zayn throws an apologetic glance at the barista who's had to remind them of the 'no PDA' rule so many times she should be getting paid extra for it. Eventually they had to change it to 'no PDA below the waist,' because Harry and Louise quite simply cannot be stopped, but still, as a person who spends her days being attacked by surprise makeouts, Zayn understands how that can grow boring. Mostly she's learnt to just ignore them. 

She turns a page on a pad, trying to imagine what the boring girl's face looks like. She tears it up when it ends up looking too much like Liam. 

*

When Harry mentions it again, Zayn's mostly forgotten about it. With her dad having to be hospitalized for renal trouble, the registration for one of her classes going wrong and her roommate having apparently decided that 2012 is the perfect year for loud, squeaky sex with every guy on campus, finding a model is the least of her worries. 

So that explains why when Harry asks her if she's up for "meeting her Wednesday at lunch", her only reaction is to blink and say, "you're not trying to set me up again, are you, Haz? It's really nice of you, but we all know how it turned out last time."

"Lisa was a very nice girl," Harry protests. 

"Lisa was a psychopath who stalked me for three months after I broke up with her because she'd made a voodoo doll of me," Zayn reminds her. 

She can almost hear Harry pouting at the other end of the phone. "Okay, so maybe she had some issues," she concedes, and Zayn has to laugh at that. "Whatever, I wasn't trying to set you up anyway. D'you remember, the model girl for your drawing class?"

"Oh, right. Wednesday then? I guess I can fit that in."

"Because you're so _busy_ ," Harry mocks, even though it's actually true. Anyway, Zayn still doesn't understand how Harry managed not to fail her first year, what with spending every second she wasn't in class fucking Louise or rasping strange hipster songs on her guitar with Aiden. (She's actually gotten it into her head that Louise, Aiden, Zayn and her should form a punk band. Zayn's life is ridiculous.)

Wednesday comes around soon enough, and Zayn would probably have forgotten about the lunch date if Harry hadn't texted her to remind her, which is strangely thoughtful of her. They agreed to meet up at the taco stand outside the building, so Zayn slings her messenger bag over her shoulder, the leather fringe hitting her bare thigh. 

Harry's already there, gesturing animatedly at a tall girl who looks kind of frightened. Zayn can't see her face from the distance, but she slows down a bit anyway to size her up before she joins them. She's not bad-looking – her shoulders are a little broad for a girl but Zayn's never been one for stereotype, and she likes drawing different types of bodies. Her hair is long and flows on her shoulders, wavy and brown-ish – or at least that's what it looks like. 

There's not much more she can see from there, so Zayn walks up to them. The girl turns around to dig for something in her purse, and Zayn tuts between her teeth, frustrated that she can't see her face. 

She taps Harry on the shoulder. "Hey," she says. 

Harry beams up at her. "Hey, Zayner," she says softly, and then gestures to the girl. 

Who looks up. 

"This is Liam," Zayn hears. 

_Shit._

*

"D'you two know each other?"

Zayn would answer, but she doesn't think she can breathe. She sits down on the wooden bench, her legs shaking a little. 'This is a stupid reaction,' the rational part of her brain hisses. 'Get over yourself.' 'It's _Liam_ ,' the other part replies, and that says everything. 

"Yes," Liam says, and is it Zayn or her voice sounds a little shaky as well? "We went to high school together, we, uh, were. Best friends, I guess. A long time ago."

Harry isn't insensitive enough to ask why, as Louise probably would've (but then, Louise knows most of the story of what happened with Liam. Well, what Zayn told her, anyway). 

"I should go," Harry says, the traitor. "Lou must be waiting for me. I'll let you sort the details out, yeah?"

Zayn can't exactly say no, so she settles for glaring as discreetly as she can. She nods. "Sure," she says, trying to keep her voice from shaking, in vain. "See ya."

Harry, that bastard, pats her on the shoulder. "See ya," she replies easily. 

Zayn watches her walk away anyway – anything not to look at Liam. It's been _years_ , for God's sake. Liam probably doesn't even remember. 

"Hey," Liam says when Harry disappears and it just becomes plain weird. 

"Hey," Zayn parrots. 

It's awkward. Of course it's awkward. Zayn wants to run away so badly she has cramps in her calves. 

"How have you been?" Liam asks. "I'm glad to see you again."

Of course you are, Zayn thinks, and then she takes a breath and she really looks at Liam for the first time since that night where there was too much alcohol and friendship dwindling away into nothingness. Her face is sharper, cheekbones and jaw more defined, but her eyes are the same as they always were, a gentle brown, soft and caring. Zayn tries not to look at the rest. 

"I'm fine," Zayn says. "So, uh, you want to model?"

Liam grimaces, itches her collarbone as her face flushes. "Yeah, well, you know how it is, university is expensive." She brightens. "Anyway. I wonder how we didn't meet before."

Zayn shrugs, unable to keep the smile from showing on her face. Already. Jesus, she's done for. "Different majors, I guess. Harry told me you're doing history?"

"Yeah," Liam smiles. "How did you meet her, then?"

Zayn touches the back of her neck, looking down. "You remember Louise, yeah? Harry's her girlfriend."

"Oh," Liam says softly. She looks surprised, a little shocked maybe, but not disgusted. Zayn has trouble imagining her hating anyone, anyway. "Okay."

She takes a breath and reaches out, lacing their fingers together. Zayn's heart jumps in her chest. When she looks up, Liam is smiling, a little inquisitive. 

Zayn smiles back. 

*

That's the second beginning of their story. It's a much better one, all things considered, even though Liam's tongue in Zayn's mouth will never not be a good thing – but this one's a story of friendship, and even if Zayn breaks the strings and lets the puppets fall, there'll still be that underneath. They're friends. Nothing trumps that. 

*

Falling back into Liam is easy.

It's a little weird having her model at first, but they agree to do the clothed pieces first. They start hanging out together more and more, and it's almost as easy as it used to be, laughing at Liam's dorky jokes, introducing her to her little group of misfits and watching her love everyone because of _course_ she does, she's Liam Payne. They eat lunch together and Zayn takes Liam to her classes and gives her her jacket when it's cold because Liam takes care of everyone except herself. 

Falling back in love with her is just as easy, unfortunately. 

To be honest, Zayn isn't sure she ever stopped – she just tried to forget about her, but she was always there at the back of Zayn's mind, shaping her expectations of every girl she's ever dated. Maybe that's why she never could hold on to anyone, why Louise was such a perfect person to sleep with because she was the exact opposite of Liam, reckless and brash and overtly sexual. 

But now Zayn notices everything about Liam: the way her skin glows amber in the late October sun, the softness of her limbs, her skin and her scent and the way she smiles, open and bright. She notices the way her jeans hug her thighs and she finds her grandma cardigans endearing instead of ridiculous and really, it's ridiculous how far gone she is in so little time. 

They're doing homework once in Zayn's flat (really, it's more like this: Zayn has an English paper to turn in tomorrow and Liam is working on things that are probably for next year to keep her from procrastinating), Liam at the desk and Zayn belly-down on her bed, as usual, when Liam says, "Jonathan asked me out."

Zayn should have expected this, she really should've. Of course it doesn't keep her heart from feeling like it's being sledge-hammed. She would know if life were fair. "Really?" she says casually, instead of _no, no, don't, I love you_.

"Yeah," Liam says. She's worrying her bottom lip now, her legs crossed beneath her on the chair. "What d'you think I should say?"

Zayn swallows. "I don't know – d'you want to go out with him?"

Liam shrugs. "Not really. I just don't want to disappoint him, you know?"

Of course. Of course Liam would date someone not to hurt their feelings – and Zayn's heart grows another seven sizes, even though it's just this once, even though there's going to be a time where the answer to that question is 'I want to' and Zayn won't have a say in it, won't be able to say 'please don't, I want you.'

"Don't go out with him, then," she says simply, hoping her mirth doesn't reflect in her voice. 

Liam doesn't say anything, bent on her book – the desk lamp shines on the side of her face and makes the brown in her eyes melt, warm with quick glimpses of gold. 

*

Liam doesn't go out with Jonathan. 

But it happens again, as Zayn had predicted – and eventually she finds someone she likes. He's nice enough – Tom, and Liam seems really in love with him, so it's okay, sort of. They go well together. They're the kind of pair you'd find in family commercials, the ones with two blond children and a dog, a comfy couch and a shiny coffee-maker. Zayn tries not to feel bitter; she goes out and she fucks girls with fringed dresses and long nails, then feels like an arsehole about it and does it again. 

Liam frowns on it but doesn't say anything. It's always been like this, their friendship, really – Zayn doing the things she shouldn't and Liam watching her, alternatively impressed and disapproving. And the sad thing is, the only thing Zayn ever wanted was to make her smile like the first time they met, take her hand and help jump over the fence, find that again. 

She can't wish for something else. They're friends again, and that in itself is a lot more than Zayn had ever dared hope for. But it's like giving a slice of bread to a starving man, it only makes it worse, the hunger. Zayn wants the whole meal, wants to feast on Liam's soft thighs, lick the inside of her navel and make her squirm, twitch and convulse. She wants everything. She didn't use to feel like this – now she understands the expression, the slow burn. 

There are times, though, when she feels like this could be enough. Maybe she could live and be friends with the Liam who shyly tells her that maybe she likes having her hair pulled, the one who smiles in her ice-cream and spends a whole day in sweats and an old T-shirt watching TV with Zayn to indulge her, and then feels guilty about it immediately after, the one who dances like a dork and listens to bad music and tells Zayn that her drawings are beautiful with that soft, awed smile, like she's proud. 

It could be enough. Zayn can make it be enough. 

*

The thing is, Liam is bad at love. 

Maybe it's because she wants to please everyone, maybe it's her destiny, maybe it's bad luck. Maybe it's something else. The point is, she consistently ends up with the worst boyfriends to ever have been inflicted on anyone. It's kind of pitiful. 

The first one, Tom, isn't actually all that that bad. He majors in philosophy and he's crazy busy all the time but it's obvious that he loves Liam. Zayn doesn't mind him as long as she doesn't have to listen to them have sex in the adjacent room (they moved together over Christmas: Liam was searching for a place to stay because she couldn't concentrate with her past flatmates and Zayn's roommate just happened to be leaving and, well, the point is, they live together now). When it happens, she goes to Louise and Harry's flat and Louise refrains from having sex with Harry during twelve hours for the sake of Zayn's sanity, which is nice of her given how Harry and her are. Harry mostly prances around the room naked being no help at all, making mock-alluring faces at the both of them. 

Liam and Tom break up because he gets a scholarship and moves to the us, which, even Liam admits that she can't sustain a relationship when there's an ocean between the two of them. She cries for two weeks, Zayn pats her on the back and shares her ice-cream and watches horror movies with her to cheer her up (turns out Liam is afraid of horror movies. Oops. At least it does take her mind off Tom while she's screaming and shaking in Zayn's arms, and Zayn can't say she doesn't enjoy the 'in her arms' part.). 

After that, though, it all goes downhill. Jack cheats on her with one of her friends from her writing workshop and broadcasts it to all his mates, James takes naked pictures of her (and Zayn really doesn't know how he got her to do that, because really, it's literally the opposite of a Liam thing. She doesn't ask) that of course end up on the Internet, Keith leaves her when she tells him she loves him and Napoleon turns out to be as much of an arsehole as his namesake and tells Liam, three weeks in, that he 'thought this was just a sex thing'. Liam isn't pleased, to say the least. 

"But, like, I don't get how she can be so unlucky with this," Zayn rants to Louise. 

"I know what you're thinking," Louise says, looking chastising (which, ha, because. Louise.). "Don't."

"I'm not! It's just, how does she always end up with the most disgusting pigs? There _has_ to be one decent guy in this uni."

Harry shrugs, curled in an armchair with a book. "Don't tell _us_ that. We're all lesbians here, remember?"

"Hey!" Aiden protests from the kitchen. "I heard that!"

"We're talking about normal people, here, babe," Louise answers, craning her neck. "I'm pretty sure you were with Matt when you were in the _womb_."

Harry tilts her head – she gives it a moment of thought before scrunching up her nose. "That's actually disgusting," she says. 

Louise shrugs smugly, like _hey, what can you do_. 

"I need new friends," Zayn whines. 

Louise pats her shoulder. "It's okay, darling. We get that you're in hopeless, pathetic dork love with Liam. We're suffering with you."

"Sod off," Zayn says, pushing her hands away. 

"No, but, seriously, Zayn," Aiden says, coming out the kitchen where she was probably talking to Matt on the phone or something equally ridiculous. "Do you actually know if she's straight?"

Zayn gives her her patented _duh_ look, which she stole off Louise when she was seventeen. "She sleeps with men. I'm pretty sure she's straight."

Aiden waves it off, as though it didn't matter at all. "She could be bi," she says wonderingly. 

"I don't think so," Zayn says. She's never seen Liam look at a girl like that, but then again, she never really tried to see it – it's just. She doesn't let herself think about it. What if Liam _does_ like girls, and not her? Zayn's not sure she could take that. 

(She's kidding herself. Of course she could. It would just be something _more_ to shut up and burn about, and she might be a masochist, but she's not that much of one. Just, no.)

"Why don't you ask her?" Aiden says. 

"And how would that conversation go? 'Liam, I know you sleep with men and have never expressed any interest in women ever, but would you happen to be bi? Oh, and by the way, I've been in love with you for ten years.'"

Aiden doesn't answer, just gives Zayn this kind of long, sad look that is everything Zayn hates. "I need a cigarette," she says, grabbing her purse on the table. 

The sound of the door slamming behind her probably shouldn't feel as good as it does. 

*

Zayn keeps herself busy. 

She doesn't really drink her feelings, but she's always been a partier – she likes the come and go of those meaningless encounters, a body you find before losing it, the no strings attached enjoyment of it, like a train of thought that's always interrupted. She likes losing herself in the music and letting her body follow her, she likes the heat, the heavy lightness of drinking. She likes the pounding elation of dozens of feet stomping on the ground. She likes feeling beautiful. She likes the contours and the shapes and the beat and the kisses. 

So she goes to parties, and she draws, and she tries to keep her grades up. She rehearses with the band (yes, Zayn caved in, but she doesn't regret it now that they're getting better – they're scoring more and more important gigs, and that has Zayn's heart racing and her fingers sliding more quickly on the strings of her base, lazy like water, her friends' wrapped around her like a vine). She watches films with Liam, and they go to the aquarium, to museums, to see _Avengers_. Zayn listens to her when she wants to complain about the current resident arsehole. Liam listens to Zayn when she can't draw. 

She can't say she's really surprised when Liam stumbles into their living-room at eleven a.m. one day, her eyes ringed red and her hair falling limply on her shoulders, dripping with rain. It's not exactly unusual, though she's not usually drunk – she seems pretty hammered this time. 

"Liam," Zayn says in a sigh. 

Liam drops her head in her hands, heaving short, frame-wracking sobs. 

"Liam, babe," Zayn repeats. She sets down her pencils – she's not finishing this tonight, that much is clear – and leads Liam to the couch, her palm on the small of Liam's back. "It's okay. Ssh."

With all the practice she's been getting, she hasn't really improved when it comes to comforting people. She still doesn't know what to do when they're like this, when their sadness is irrational and deep and they just need to cry it out. Seeing Liam like this just makes Zayn want to find the fucker and punch him in the face. It's probably her punk side coming out. 

"I just – I don't g-get it," Liam chokes out, burying her damp face in Zayn's shoulder. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you, babe," Zayn says. "You're beautiful." She's burning to show how much she means it, show Liam how beautiful she is, but she holds back, as usual. 

"I _try_ to do it right, you know," Liam says, looking up at Zayn, and her nose is red and there are tears drying on her cheeks and others flowing down to wipe them off. "I try to be better. I try, but I – I just – I can't -"

Another fit of sobs shakes through her, and when it's done she looks like she just coughed her lungs out, exhausted, her shoulders slumped. 

"It's all them, Li," Zayn tells her, stroking her hair gently. She starts undoing the knots mechanically, nails softly tugging the strands apart. "You're perfect. They're the problem, not you."

It's not what she should say. She should say other things, better things, give her advice maybe, but she can't help the words that come out, not when Liam's teeth are catching on her skin as she bites down a miserable cough. 

"I'm so shite at this," Liam says weakly. She's still crying, but now it's silent, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and on her lips. "I'm so shite at this and it's _raining_ and everything is fucked-up, and – maybe I should just give up." And, in a whisper: "Maybe I should just be like you."

Her head rolls down to Zayn's knees, and here they are, Zayn looking ahead because it's the only thing she can do, fingers still raking through Liam's wet hair, and Liam crying her lost lovers away, curled up miserably in the foetal position. 

"I love you," Zayn whispers when Liam finally falls asleep, exhausted and limp on her knees. Liam's right eye twitches. "I love you so fucking much."

Liam sleeps on. 

*

Liam doesn't really get over this one.

"I'm swearing off dating," she says, looking as determined as she always does. Selfishly, Zayn wishes that she means it this time. 

"Liam, babe, you always say that," she says, not even bothering to look up from her pad. "You're too much of a romantic."

"No, really," Liam says, and that does make Zayn look up, because Liam sounds serious.

"Okay," Zayn says. It's the best she can do right now. 

Liam blinks. "What – you don't think I should, like, soldier on?" She makes a ridiculous fist-pump at 'soldier on', and it's so adorable Zayn has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from reaching out and tugging her wrist to kiss her. 

"You've a shite taste in blokes, babe, to be honest. It's probably the reasonable thing to do."

"Yeah, you're right." She frowns. 

"I know," Zayn says. 

There's a moment of silence. It's comfortable like silence between them always is, because Liam knows Zayn doesn't talk much and respects that. 

"This is enough, anyway," she says resolutely, biting her lip and looking down at her knees. 

Zayn's knuckles whiten around her pencil; once again, she wishes she truly _were_ enough. 

*

Zayn didn't know what she was expecting. Was she expecting Liam to be celibate forever? Or maybe to magically turn to her and realise she'd been in love all along? She's not an idealist. Most of the time, she's even pretty grounded. It's crazy, what love can do to people. 

Liam gets with a guy called Ollie about three weeks after her pledge to swear off dating for ever. Even if Zayn didn't hate his name, which she does, she would probably hate him. He's everything Liam _doesn't_ need – a jock type, sweet enough to be charming and insecure enough to still be an arsehole. He drags Liam to his parties and makes her drink and she comes home uncomfortable in her body, stinking of smoke and beer. Zayn wonders what the severe Mrs Payne would say, in her blue dresses, holding her perfect daughter's hand. 

If she was Louise, she would probably say something, speak out, warn her, but she's Zayn Malik so instead she gets a tattoo that says 'come home' in Urdu on the soft skin of the underside of her arm, where it sounds like a secret and the only person who can discover it is someone who searches, someone who loves details as much as Zayn does. It's kind of like a Tom Thumb's lure, only not really. Like a clue. Zayn's a romantic, too, sometimes. 

She listens to Lana Del Rey on repeat and braids her hair, trying not to worry while she waits for Liam to come back, and once she hears the soft thump of the door falling shut and Liam's exhausted sigh she drops into a restless sleep. It's a pattern of hurt, but Zayn is good at that too, hurting – she does it well, just low enough so that nobody notices, because Zayn isn't exactly an upbeat person. So what if she's a little more broody than usual? She's probably got her period, that's all there is to that. 

And then something happens. 

Of course something happens. 

It's a Tuesday night, and Zayn knows for a fact that Liam has a paper to turn in. She knows it because Liam Liam wrote it in bold and underlined it twice on her homework board, and she knows it's not done yet because Liam told her she was having troubles finishing it two days ago and she went out last night. Zayn isn't stupid. 

So when Liam turns up in the living room at eight in a dress that's too tight for her, flashy red, tottering on her heels, her eyes heavily made-up, and asks, "So what do you think?" Zayn can't help but say, "so, that's it?"

She probably shouldn't, she knows it the moment she sees Liam's face fall out and her arms tighten around her own waist, her default defence position, but she can't stop. Zayn's a calm person, but sometimes rage ignites her and it's like petrol, it seeps into every fibre of her and doesn't stop burning into she's a pile of black, fuming ashes. 

"That's what?" Liam asks, her voice wary. 

"That's it? You're going to pretend you're dumb and throw away the education your parents paid for because you need a pig to tell you you're beautiful?"

No. No. It's like throwing up, her throat constricting reflexively every time a word squeezes out, but she can't stop. 

Liam looks taken aback, and then – "Fuck you," she snarls, and it's so unlike her it makes Zayn wants to shake her straight, back to who she used to be. It's so unlike her that it gives Zayn the courage she needs to keep hurling hateful truths at her, and that's an ugly thing but it's so true, so painfully true. Liam grabs her purse on the table and totters to the door. 

"Yeah, right," Zayn drawls – she can't remember when she went from being slumped in the couch to this, standing erect and vibrating with desperate anger, her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles beating bruises in the skin of her hips. "Go cry to your _boyfriend_. What's he gonna do, fuck you until you feel better, that's it?"

Liam is seething too, now. _That's what I wanted_ , Zayn thinks, even though that's not what she wanted at all. "What, are you _jealous_?" Liam spits. 

Zayn takes it like a punch to the face. 

"What's there to be jealous of? The way you humiliate yourself for someone you don't even love? You think I want that? Sorry to burst your bubble, princess, but it's not exactly what every girl dreams about."

"You'd know," Liam snarls. "You know what," – she steps out of her heels but even then she's a little taller than Zayn, and her anger makes her immense. "Fuck you. I thought you were my friend, but if that's all -"

(She's crying, she's crying, is she really crying, really, Zayn, you never knew when to shut your mouth after all, did you?)

"I _am_ your friend. I'm your friend who doesn't want to watch you make an arsehole of yourself, make a _whore_ of yourself because you think you don't deserve better than a fucking dudebro who gets off on making girls like you miserable."

"Girls like me?" Liam screeches, and Zayn can _see_ , she can just see Liam only kept one word of this whole sentence, and it wasn't one of the good ones. " _Whores_ , you mean?"

"Liam -"

"And you know what, you can just shut up because at least I'm doing _something_ with my love life instead of just sitting around waiting for Princess Charming like some _dyke_ I know."

 _Aim, shoot, kill_ , Zayn thinks as the bullet drives into her chest, ripples around her ribs and ransacks her insides. 

"Well," Zayn says after a beat of silence, and she hates how shaky it is, how it twists her throat and makes all the bile pool just above her oesophagus, ready to pour out. "I think everything's been said." 

She wants to stagger to her bed and cry. She feels like – like lightning when through her and the only thing left of her is charred flesh hanging off her unbalanced skeleton. 

"No," Liam said. (She's shaking too, isn't she? There's shame in it, Zayn can see it, but there's also determination, because once Liam starts something she doesn't stop. God, this is grotesque). "You don't get to say when the conversation ends. You think you can just -" she makes a vague hand gesture, frantic wrist slapping through the air, "waltz in here and tell me what I'm doing wrong, be all righteous but you don't know _anything_. Sorry if I'm not sitting on my arse looking all hipster and being cynical about life. Sorry if my sex life isn't limited at fucking strangers and a girl I met in fucking high school. Sorry if my only hobby isn't writing dumb shit on every little part of my body. So yeah, fuck you, Zayn. I'm living my life like I fucking want to, and when you can do better _then_ you can come and criticize me. Until then, just shut the fuck up and save your rants for someone who actually cares."

She's breathless, red-cheeked and hideous and beautiful; she never swears; Zayn loves her so much it actually _aches_ , it throbs in her chest and it gives her heaves, if only she could – and the only thing she's thinking is _better, better, if you can do better_ , taunting her -

She doesn't know what possesses her (she does. She does know, but it's a scary word, a scary word to say when you're barely twenty, so young and full of fear). She strides across the room and grips Liam's shoulders, pressing her thumbs hard against her collarbone. _Better._

"What -" Liam says, showing teeth, but that's before Zayn's mouth crashes against hers, the cracks in their lips aligning until they're nothing but a giant chasm, a blank where their anger crawls and huffs, and every parcel of air Zayn inhales is liquid courage until she's drunk with it. 

She kisses, then. She kisses Liam like you kiss the best friend who you've been in love with for ten years and who's just called you a dyke, with teeth and a nibble at the skin to say, _you've been mean to me, why, why_. She kisses Liam like you kiss a cherished woman, like you kiss a bride, with tender lips and playful licks that speak of familiarity and fondness. She kisses Liam like you kiss a whirlwind, like you kiss a tsunami, feverish and scared, to say, _stay here, I'm worth it_. 

Kissing Liam Payne. 

She didn't want to do it like that, she's not even sure she wanted to do it at all – are there dreams more beautiful that those you keep forever, after all, are there dreams more beautiful than those that never come true? She almost wishes Liam would push her away, but she doesn't, she stays there, chest heaving, she presses back and she opens her mouth. 

_Prove it_ , her teeth are saying, and she lets herself be kissed, of course. Zayn has to slide her fingers up her jaw, trace her cheeks and plunge her fingers in her hair, pretend to be violent and vindictive when really she just wants to lay Liam down and make love to her for hours, and she's pretty sure Liam knows that, too. But if she wants to pretend it's fine, everything's fine if Liam wants it. That's the pathetic truth: Zayn would be whoever – whatever – Liam wants just to get that, the exhilaration of keeping her close without it being illicit, being allowed the thrill of brushing her nose against Liam's throat and feeling her inhale sharply. 

"Better?" she asks, to say, _I can play your game_. 

Liam looks down. If she hadn't known her for ten years Zayn probably wouldn't recognize this flicker in her eyes as panic, deep poignant fear, but she does see it. _It's okay_ , she tries to say as she rolls her knuckles into of Liam's side, riding her shudder with her, rising on her tiptoes to press their mouths together again. _We can pretend._

*

Liam never ends up writing her essay that night. 

Zayn would feel bad about it, but she doesn't get to her party either – and besides, it's not like she can think anything other than _here here here_ and _lovehoperedemptionbeauty_ as she cradles Liam's cheek in her palm and coaxes reluctant kisses from her swollen mouth. 

She plucks the buttons from her trashy dress, violently enough that she's sure they can't be sewn back. She doesn't know what she's feeling, a mixture of swelling anger and overflowing affection, the sharp bite of jealousy and the pinch of prudence. Be careful, she tries to tell herself. Be careful. 

Of course she isn't careful. She kissed Liam once at a party when she was sixteen and since then she's been craving the taste of Liam's lips on hers like a thirsty man in the desert craves an oasis, like a lost sheep craves a sheperd. Every girl she's ever kissed has taken on Liam's face, Liam's big hands, her unpainted nails, her long, wavy hair, her average brown eyes. 

So there – she lets Liam wrap her hands around her hips and tries not to think about how Liam's probably pretending that she's someone else, tries not to think about all her doubts and her insecurities and the reasons why she probably shouldn't do that. There are reasons – but there are also twenty-six notebooks where every drawing is a perfect imperfect part of Liam's body, so it evens out. 

She pushes a hand on Liam's stomach, the dress a heap at their feet on the floor. She can feel that Liam's scared, that she feels weakened by the light on her body and the fact that she's the only one naked, her breasts heaving in her sports bra. And Zayn just can't breathe, because this is so _her_ , wearing a sports bra under a dress because she's Liam Payne and even when she betrays herself she's still here, in little details that are all that Zayn cherishes. 

So Zayn kisses the garish lipstick off her lips, licks it off and lets it mix with her saliva to become this red thick blood that stains her chapped lips. She closes her teeth over the bone of Liam's jaw just to feel her shiver, and when she does Zayn presses a hand to her spine to shiver with her, to feel it ripple down each knob of her spine. She kisses the plump skin between Liam's breasts and plays Pachelbel's canon with her nails in the small of Liam's back because it was her favourite lullaby when they were children.

"I -" Liam starts, but Zayn shuts her up with her thumb pressed to her lips. She can't let any word ruin this. She doesn't care if it's important, if it's a secret she needed to know. 

She wipes the garish lipstick off Liam's mouth with her thumb, and that's – that's when Liam starts looking like herself again, when Zayn can stop _fixing_ and start devouring instead. 

She threads their fingers together, one by one (it's not pretending anymore, it's on the brink of being dangerously true but Zayn can't say she cares), nails rasping a gentle song on the winter-coarse skin, and then she pulls Liam into her bedroom. Liam follows easily enough – she stumbles once or twice but Zayn slips an easy arm around her, touching her where she needs to be touched, where Zayn knows she'll react the most – the crease of her thigh, the pointy bone of her hip, this dip in her stomach. 

When they get to Zayn's bedroom Liam looks around like she's never seen it before, taking in the wooden desk, the open wardrobe, the dress thrown over the spinning chair. Zayn gestures for her to lie down. The bed isn't made, but Liam fits there anyway, in the middle of the twisted sheets, lying back on her elbows. Her hair slips out of her clip and flows back on her shoulders. She tilts her head back for a second, closes her eyelids.

When Zayn starts undressing she looks back up, her eyes brown and intent. There's no more shyness tehre but Zayn has the insults etched on every part of her body and she suspects Liam does too – they're as hurt by each other as they are aroused, and it's a strange thing, how off-balance this all is, how easily it could tip back into insanity. But it doesn't. Zayn unclips her braces and tugs her T-shirt off her shorts, drags it over her shoulders, twisting only a little. She undoes her shorts. She thinks about taking off the rest too, but she doesn't. 

There's a flicker of something in Liam's eyes when Zayn climbs over her, maybe fear or maybe fire, who knows. Zayn trails her fingers over the soft skin of Liam's thigh, trying not to let herself get too mesmerized by the way their skins match so well, caramel and golden, like she always knew – hoped – they would. 

They kiss again, and this time Liam's _there_ , arching right back against Zayn's stomach, Zayn's skin prickling hot where they touch. The feeling of fabric brushing against her nipples and the hot weight of Liam's breasts right against them is already too much, and Zayn smiles when Liam gasps in her mouth. 

Zayn presses her palm gently against the bone of Liam's shoulder to get her to roll around, just a little, just enough so that she can pepper kisses over her nape and back and side, trailing down to her stomach, the underside of her breasts, nimble fingers snaking to unclasp her bra, the cold metal of her ring making Liam moan, just a little, just enough –

"Zayn," she moans. It sounds like a prayer, and it sets fire to something between Zayn's heart and her stomach. Her blood is petrol; the fire runs up and up until her lips are ablaze. 

"Yes," Zayn says, muffled against the skin of Liam's stomach. 

It gets frantic after that: ten years will do that to you, ten years of wanting to do this, of fantasizing about it, of hating herself for fantasizing about it – dragging her fingers along the skin of Liam's thighs and watching her ride the full-body shivers is exhilarating, an unexpected victory. 

Liam keens when Zayn runs her finger over her underwear, dragging them through the wetness, and Zayn has to crawl up her body to kiss it out of her. _I love you_ , she thinks, but doesn't say. 

It's not exactly easy, but it's not exactly hard either. Liam doesn't say anything when Zayn takes her underwear off, hides her face in the fleshy underside of her arm for a few seconds but is too desperate or too turned on to be ashamed. Instead she spreads her thighs open wider, almost obscenely so, and her hand winds in the short hair at Zayn's nape, drawing her close. 

"C'mon," she says, bitten in her swollen lips. 

Zayn would tease – she'd love to; take hours to bring Liam to the brink, lick the ebb and flow out of her – but Liam presses Zayn's nose into the crease of her thighs, and this is too much of a comfort thing for Zayn to deny her the pleasure she so desperately wants. 

"Yeah," she says, and gets at it, pressing the flat of her tongue against Liam's clit. She laps in broad strokes, strong with her years of experience, and it doesn't take a long time for her to get Liam off, curling her fingers around Liam's thighs and hanging onto them for leverage. Liam tugs at her hair almost violently. Zayn doesn't mind. She doesn't really like pain, but it feels appropriate. 

Liam makes a vague gesture to suggest she reciprocate, and Zayn wants it, she really does, but Liam seems so awkward about it that she just waves her hand, _it's fine_. 

The throb of arousal is almost painful though, thumping like a heavy base in her lower stomach. Zayn runs her nails on Liam's thigh, fingers sneaking up to tweak Liam's pebbled nipple. Liam moans weakly. 

"You got another one in you, you think?" Zayn says nears her ribcage. She gets so distracted with kissing the outline of her bones that she almost misses Liam's soft whisper of "Yeah, yes."

So Zayn does it, because there's nothing Zayn wouldn't do for Liam – she presses her hips down into the mattress and takes her time, licking every drop of her pleasure out of Liam until she's shuddering, exhausted and on the brink, almost vibrating with need. The beauty of it almost makes Zayn forget her own arousal, taken as she is with the poetry of this taut white line of a body, tense like an electrical wire. 

" _This is what makes us girls_ ," she sings softly afainst Liam's skin, and Liam convulses above her, her hips lifting off the mattress.

"Zayn," she says, broken. Maybe she's crying again. 

" _We all look for heaven and we put love first_ ," Zayn murmurs, almost inaudible. 

She pretends not to see Liam's nose wrinkle when she kisses her after, just a peck on the lips. She waits for her breathing to even out before wrapping an arm around her middle and pressing close. _This is still pretend_ , she thinks, and her mind goes back to her unfinished drawing and Liam's trashy red dress, switching from one to the other until her mind goes a blurry mix of graphite and pale red, gradually slipping into darkness. 

*

Liam isn't there when Zayn wakes up. She's not disappointed, per se – it's not like she was expecting anything else. She stretches; her shoulders feel all knotted up. She vaguely scans the bed for a note, but there isn't anything. She wonders how early Liam got up, if she did write that essay after all, in a rush before her ten a.m. class. Zayn's first class is at one, so Liam didn't let her sleep through Romantic Literature, there's at least that. She wouldn't. 

Zayn eats breakfast without the radio on, staring at the white cupboard. What is Liam going to say when she comes back? Maybe she'll be confused. Maybe Zayn'll have to stop her from freaking out. She'll probably have broken up with her arsehole boyfriend – maybe she'll be sad? Maybe there'll be more comforting. 

Zayn's brain doesn't stop as she grabs her bag and heads out, shrugging a hoodie on. What are they now? It feels weird getting something you always wanted; Zayn feels sort of empty, like now that it's done she could just deflate and float away. It's not a bad feeling, exactly; it's just boneless, the frayed string of a kite growing out of her back. She lets the wind push her, but it's gentle enough in the end. 

Is it happiness? No, probably not. Zayn's bad at it, anyway, never got the grasp of the hard, firey joy. She always admired people who _could_ , even though she isn't sure she really misses it. (Should she tell the girls about it? Is it too soon? Yeah, probably. What would she tell them, anyway? 'Liam and I fought and then I ate her out until she passed out'? Not the most romantic getting-together story.)

She makes it to her class, but only barely, grabbing a coffee at _The Bean_ on the way. Her stomach is grumbling by the time she gets to the class, and she regrets not having thought to buy a burrito too. There's a stand on campus that's not too disgusting, and she's so hungry at this point she wouldn't really have cared. Zayn's not exactly picky about food. 

The class goes by in a daze. Zayn's not sure she could even tell what the teacher talked about, what notes she took down, if any – there's nothing in her mind except what's going to be waiting for her behind the door when she comes back to the flat, what the first words out of Liam's mouth are going to be. She doesn't want to be naïve, has never been one to delude herself in the first place, but she can't help but hope. What if Liam opened her arms and Zayn could pillow her head between her breasts, like coming home after all these years? What if – what if?

Louise frowns at her at lunch, but in the end is too busy snogging Harry between every bite to say anything. Niall does frown at her, though, shovelling french fries in her mouth. 

"You're weird," she says, shoving about a hundred curly fries in her mouth at once.

"You're disgusting," Zayn counters. 

Niall is clearly not fooled, but she doesn't investigate further. Fortunately, she's not the type to meddle in when it's not her business. Zayn ends up not really talking through lunch, but Niall is happy enough blathering about Josh. 

"You together yet?" Zayn asks after the seventeenth mention of how bulging his biceps are. 

Niall blushes faintly. "We're just mates," she says. 

"Sure," Zayn says sceptically. 

"Oh, shove off," Niall tosses, throwing her a fry, and that's the end of it. Niall's not prying, the least Zayn can do is to leave her alone too. 

Zayn has to tighten her scarf as she walks – well, more like trots. Not that she'd ever admit it, though – back to the flat. It's still bloody fucking cold, soon she'll have to put away the shorts and get the parka. She lets a smile slip out as she imagines Liam shivering, a big woollen hat pushed down on her ears. 

Then she opens the door and everything falls away. 

*

It's like in one of those movies, the really bad ones where everything stills as the mistress slowly untangles herself from the married man, her lipstick still smeared on his cheek as though the public needed more blatant and tacky proof that wasn't their tongue shoved in each other's throat. The similarities are too startling for Zayn not to dwell on, and she takes half a second to ponder on how her life became a Lifetime drama before she starts hurting. She was just delaying, really. 

She inhales – it's sudden, the air hurting the inside of her nostrils as she breathes in, cold from the outside – and it seems to unfreeze the whole scene. Liam's face goes from surprised to guilty to sort of determined, as though she knows she's in the wrong but wants to pretend that she isn't. She's endearingly bad at that. Well. It would be endearing if she hadn't been eating face with douchebag what's-his-face not ten seconds ago. 

"Hi," Liam says. It sounds like an attack. 

What's-his-face looks kind of confused by it all, but Zayn really couldn't care less. She wonders if she could squeeze a "hi" out of her throat and make it to her room unscathed, slip against the wood and cry, and then she thinks about the ten years she spent pining after Liam and how she'd never have hoped for more if Liam hadn't been a jerk and slept with her in a bout of self-doubt.

(Maybe that's enough to stop loving her, a voice says in a distant part of her brain. Knowing how selfish she really is.

She's just human, another answers, closer to her heart.)

"Fuck," is all that makes it out, hatched between her clenched teeth, smokey and rough. 

Liam cocks an eyebrow like she really hasn't done anything wrong. Zayn just wants to go to sleep and forget the last twenty-four hours ever happened: the pulsing fear, the elation, the pleasure, the hope. They all flash like a kaleidoscope in front of her eyes. Zayn feels blurry; a headache starts thrumming in her skull. 

"You want something?" What's-his-face asks. It's not even a new one, Zayn thinks vindictively. She'd rather recycle her old arseholes than have Zayn, who loves her like she invented the fucking wheel. Fuck her. She can go to hell. 

But it jerks Zayn out of her daze nonetheless. She shakes her head. A sad pang of satisfaction goes through her like lightning when Liam swats him on the arm disapprovingly, but it flicks back into nothingness as soon as it's appeared. 

"No," Zayn says. Her mouth feels like it's full of cotton. 

She tries to make her legs work, and someone up there must have decided they dumped enough shit on her for one day, because they obey and she doesn't even stumble as she tries to get to her room as fast as she can without actually running. 

She doesn't waste any time before starting to stuff clothes in a backpack and she running the fuck away – because that's what she does best, isn't it? 

She tries not to look at Liam as she runs back through the living-room and out the door, tries not to hear What's-his-face's dumb "what's with her?" and Liam's bitten-off curse – not a real one, of course, she's too fucking _polite_ for that. She fails, of course. 

*

Louise is reasonably supportive about it. That is to say, she berates Zayn for being stupid ("sleeping with friends, that shit _never_ ends well, Zayn, you should know that." Zayn doesn't point out that they slept together for three years and it ended well enough, but she should. She's just too choked up with sobs at this point to think about it, so sue her) and then gives her a handful of tissues and a pillow to muffle her tears in.

"Come on, love," she says, soothing, and pushes Zayn's legs off the couch so she can sit next to her. Zayn cuddles close. She breathes in Louise's familiar scent, trying to find a shred of home in it. 

Louise doesn't even mind when Zayn puts her earphones on and selects her most depressing playlist, burrowing closer in her chest. Zayn doesn't care about being an independent woman tonight. She wants to be selfish and mean and cry and hog her best friend and not mind that there's still class tomorrow, that the world won't stop because Zayn Malik got her heart broken, that really she's the only one to blame in this mess, that Louise has a girlfriend and a life that doesn't revolve around her. She doesn't want to care. 

She falls asleep quickly enough. Thank God for small mercies, right? 

When she wakes her she feels gross – her mouth is furry and her limbs feel all knotted up from having gone to sleep curled in the couch in a position far from comfortable. She pads to the bathroom softly, trying not to think, which proves rather unsuccessful. She's mostly unsurprised when her reflection ends up looking awful, dried black-ish tear tracks on her cheeks and hair in disarray. Her necklace left a red imprint in her neck. Fuck, and she has to go to class. She can probably skip. 

No one's there when she gets to the kitchen. There's a slip of paper on the benchtop and Zayn almost doesn't read it, doesn't really care what's on it if it's not 'yesterday was all a big cruel joke'. She reads it anyway. It's from Louise, her curled, loopy handwriting saying that Harry's first class is at one so they'll probably see each other and to make herself a cup of tea, then fat x kisses at the bottom. Zayn's heart swells as much as it can given that it's been reduced to a shrunk enpiece of torn leather. 

She does make tea, slowly filling the kettle with water as she scratches the itchy skin of her skull. God, she needs a shower. She finds Harry's green tea behind the multiple packs of Yorkshire. The years Zayn's spent being Louise's friend have taught her that she doesn't like Yorkshire tea. _At all_. She weighs making an omelette against regular breakfast (they always have cereals because Harry loves them) but the idea of having something hot and heavy in her stomach wins against the bother of getting a pan out and waiting for the eggs to fry. It'll keep her mind occupied, at least. 

Of course, the omelette ends up not being half as good as Zayn had thought it would be, but at this point she isn't even remotely surprised. Everything about this day is probably destined to be crappy, with her luck. She drags herself to the shower and tries to scrub the self-disgust out of her skin, but only half-succeeds. At least the shower doesn't run out of hot water half-soaping, which is a good thing since it happens quite frequently in Harry and Louise's crap building.

Zayn wraps a towel around her head as she exits the bathroom, closing her eyes to avoid them getting the drops falling from her wet hair in them. 

"Hi."

Zayn jumps. 

"Fuck, you scared me."

Harry smiles. she's sitting cross-legged on the couch, wearing sweats and a loose T-shirt, her hands wrapped around a mug. She blows on it softly. 

"Thanks for the tea," she says. 

Zayn nods. "What time is it?" she asks. She's a little disappointed that it's not as late as she thought it was, to be honest. She half-hoped it would be three or something; that way her day would've been wasted and she could've moped for the rest of the afternoon on the couch without feeling too guilty about it. Now she still has the option of going to class, and she really, really doesn't want to. 

"Eleven thirty, I think," Harry says, quietly, and then: "You okay?"

Zayn goes to rake a hand through her hair, then drops it when she realises it's still wet. Her hand hangs at awkwardly at her side. "I'm fine," she says, turning around and searching for something to occupy her hands. The only thing she finds is one of the Her/Her blankets Niall gave Harry and Louise for Christmas as a joke. Zayn winces. Fuck all of this, really. 

Harry pats the cushions next to her. Zayn wants to mock her for it, but her heart's too busy trying to climb out her mouth through her throat to let her talk. "Fuck," she chokes. 

She sinks down on the couch and squeezes her eyes shut not to cry. She's done enough crying for a century. She's not even a crier, honestly. Louise's ratty bathrobe clings to her damp skin, hugging every nook of her body. It itches. 

"I'll go back this evening," Zayn says, letting her mouth ramble without even trying to stop herself, because she needs to say something, she feels like the silence is trying to smother her. "I'm sorry for imposing on you, I really am."

"Don't be stupid," Harry says in her no-bullshit voice, but it's way too soft to be convincing, not like Louise. Most of the time Harry's just too nice, too aloof. "You know you're always welcome here."

"Yeah," Zayn says. She feels exhausted; she wishes it was night already, so it could be acceptable to go back to sleep and get another twelve hours in. She probably couldn't even sleep, though. She feels twitchy, but she doesn't want to do anything, doesn't want to think, wants to swallow a sleeping pill and fall into bed again. 

"You're gonna go to class?" Harry asks softly. 

"I don't know," Zayn says. _No_ , she thinks.

"You should stay here," Harry says. "Lou and I will bring you back something to eat, you can rest for the afternoon and you'll go to class tomorrow, yeah?"

"Mm," Zayn says, and really it means _yes, thank you_ because that's exactly what she needed, someone to make her decisions for her. 

"Good," Harry says, but makes no movement to stand up. Instead she cuddles closer to Zayn, and Zayn doesn't say no, for once, leans right into the warmth and lets it lull her into not thinking at all. Best option out of all of them, really.

"It doesn't last," Harry whispers, and it's when Zayn realises that she's half-asleep, the voice echoing in her ear like a prophecy. 

She tries to say something, but on the first try her mouth runs blank, full of cotton and unused words, already chewing on sleep. "I know," she manages the second time; it comes out exhausted, small and weak and everything she hates. 

Harry's fingertips pressing down the flesh of her arm spell _it doesn't make it better_ clearly enough that none of them need to actually say it. Zayn's not sure she could talk without breaking, anyway. 

*

The next two days pass in a blur. Zayn does go to class, but she only takes her headphones off for the duration of her lectures. She writes down notes that confuse her when she vaguely tries to re-read them at night when she gets to Louise and Harry's flat. She keeps silent during meals, letting Louise and Harry's mindless chatter fly right over her head. She looks away when they kiss and listens in when they fight. 

She doesn't tell herself she'll get over it, because she won't; she'll get used to it, just like everyone does. She'll stop drawing Liam's face on her pad and tearing the pages down. It doesn't last. 

But it is what it is, at least for now; remembering the hope and the way Liam crushed it by kissing that jerk with her red red mouth, the same mouth she'd kissed Zayn with not ten hours before. It's avoiding Aiden's calls and telling Niall that she's fine, she's fine, really.

It's Louise who finally sits her down on Tuesday evening and looks her right in the eye. 

"Cut the bullshit, Malik," she says. 

Zayn blinks. She'd been expecting kind words, maybe even a bit of a cuddle she was prepared to pretend to push away and then gratefully accept, but certainly not that. It splashes over her like a cold shower, trickling down her spine in uncomfortable little drops. 

"What?" she says dumbly. She's usually better than that at witty comebacks. She's not at her best, is all. 

Louise gives her her legendary Louise Tomlinson bitchface. Zayn probably shouldn't be as used to it as she is. "I said 'cut the bullshit'. It's getting old. You've been sleeping on my couch for a week, and that's a week I haven't fucked my girlfriend. You need to get off your arse and stop moping, you like it way too much anyway. This shit isn't gonna solve itself."

Zayn blinks again. It's not her most glorious moment. 

Louise glares. "Chop chop," she says, standing up. "If you're still on this couch tomorrow night I swear I'm making Harry scream so loud you'll want to bleach your brain."

Zayn doesn't say anything. 

Louise smiles. "Good night, love," she says cheerily, and leans in to kiss Zayn's cheek. 

Zayn starts packing her bags.

What really happens, though, is that – two hours later Louise comes back down with a bottle of awful flavoured vodka like when they were fifteen and stupid. She lets Zayn cry on her shoulder about lost love and tells her she's stupid but strokes her hair anyway, shushing her down with soft whispers. They put the TV on and watch awful reality shows and even the first half of a porno, marvelling out loud at the incredibly bendy positions and how much steroids has this guy taken, seriously? His dick looks like it belongs on a bull. Eventually Harry comes down, looking kitten-like and rumpled in her pyjamas and bed-head, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Louise kisses her on the nose and whispers something in her ear, an apology that was meant to be quiet but ends up half-shouted because she's just that drunk. 

"Sorry about that, babe," she says, kissing Harry's cheek messily. "Figured Zayn here needed a little comfort."

"You could've invited me," Harry says softly, but it's not quite disapproving. 

"Nah," Louise says, lifting Harry's hand to her lips and kissing each of her knuckles. "Best friends time."

Harry cocks her head, like she doesn't quite understand but loves Louise enough to let it go, to let her have her way. Zayn looks away when she leans in for a kiss, because she's not drunk enough not to recognize intimacy when she sees it. 

When Louise comes back to sit on the couch, slipping back into her cross-legged position, she looks a little more quiet, almost appeased. 

"I'm glad you have her," Zayn says drunkenly, licking at the creases in her lips for remnants of vodka. 

"Yeah," Louise says softly. She tugs Zayn closer, and that's the end of it – Zayn knows what she doesn't say, the _me too_ , the _you'll have that too, someday_ and even the _I wish you wouldn't be so sad_.

*

Louise looks absurdly self-satisfied the next morning at breakfast, but Zayn prefers not to think about what despicable and obscene sexual acts she's probably planning for tonight. She lets Harry feed her tomatoes and eggs and even squeeze an orange in her bag before she shoulders it and kisses her cheek, jewellery clinking. "Thanks for the hospitality, love," she says. 

She feels better after last night, cleansed, in a way (though it's certainly not the vodka, because shit, she definitely could've done without the hangover). She doesn't feel quite ready to talk to Liam, but then, she probably never will. Louise is right – it's time she stopped moping and dealt with that stupid crush once and for all. 

This newfound bravery vacates her as soon as she closes the door behind her and the wind sneaks in under her collar, drawing a neat necklace of ice around her collarbones. Her breath escapes her; she deflates like a balloon, exhausted and ragged with paper lungs. "Right," she says to herself, inching her bag higher on her shoulder. It's not like she can go back now, anyway, is it? 

She makes it through the day somehow, chewing on her pens and her nails until her mouth tastes like nail polish and the girl in the seat next to her is shooting her disgusted glances. Zayn gives her the finger before leaving the class, just because. The girl's squeal gets lost in the general hubbub of the student crowd. 

She gets home before Liam. She knew Liam wouldn't be there – they've memorized each other's schedule by heart since they started living together – but still, turning the key in the lock slips a little thrill under Zayn's nails, a thrill of electricity that's half fear and half excitement. Liam's not here, though, and Zayn putters around the flat, trying not to search for any differences, any imported scent, anything that doesn't belong in what she privately sees as her and Liam's nest. 

She settles in her room, and it feels good, even though the last time she was here she was crying and the time before she was undressing for Liam and coaxing sweet moans out of her. Her bed is infinitely better than Louise and Harry's couch, at any rate – they bought it on Nick's advice at an antique shop because it looked cool with its worn leather and gleaming brass buttons on the arms, but it's fucking uncomfortable. 

She does what little homework she has to do (she probably has more, but she didn't write it down, and she really can't be bothered to call anybody who's in class with her and endure the thirty minutes of gossip and questions about why she looked "so down" the last few days) and calls Niall. 

"Hey, wanker," Niall greets. She doesn't sound really pissed, though, but then, when is Niall ever pissed? 

"Hi," Zayn says. "Sorry about the whole thing," she adds quickly, to get it out of the way. She hates apologizing, and she's shite at it, anyway. 

"Yeah, well." Niall sighs. "It's just, I'm your friend, okay? You can talk to me. I don't care if you fancy Liam or whatever. I just want you to be happy."

"I know, Nialler," Zayn says. 

"Great," Niall says, and that's it, the subject's closed. That's what Zayn likes about Niall, why she was so happy when she got integrated to their little gang: she's no-bullshit where the others are ambiguous, buoyant and brash where they're bitchy and delicate, and yet somehow she fits right in with her shorts and her snapbacks and her short cropped blond hair. 

They talk a bit about Josh and about the basketball teams qualifying for nationals (Niall has good hopes for them, which probably means they will qualify, since Niall has an almost scary gift at guessing these things – last year she said she 'wasn't feeling it' and the team lost 19-0 at regionals). Niall indulges Zayn by listening to her talk about music and her art classes and Zayn doesn't tell her she's a fucking moron for not asking Josh on a date because seriously, it's time those two got their act together. 

Then there's the sound of a key in the lock and Zayn's heart jumps. "Hey," she says softly, interrupting Niall's story about that one time where Josh pushed her in the pool, that fucking arsehole, and she was dressed all in white, seriously, men – "Liam's here."

Niall sucks in breath. She's always been overly empathic. "Good luck, mate. It'll be alright."

"Yeah," Zayn says. "Thanks. I hope so."

"It will," Niall assures, and then she hangs up and Zayn's left with the dead ring and Liam's footsteps in the living-room. 

Zayn sets the phone down. _You can do this_ , she thinks. 

When she gets to the kitchen, Liam is dancing to her iPod. It's criminally adorable, the way she wiggles her hips as she hums along to "she's cheer captain, I'm in the bleachers". She turns around, clutching a spoon in front of her mouth like her mike. "You belong with me-e-e," she sings, shaking her head in rhythm, and stops dead when she sees Zayn. 

Zayn can't help but smile. "Don't stop," she says. "I wouldn't want to interrupt such a soulful rendition."

Liam blushes, reaching out to swat Zayn's arm playfully. She catches herself just as her fingers touch Zayn, and takes her hand back as though she'd been burned. Zayn tries not to take it personally. 

"So," Liam says. 

It's painfully awkward. 

"Look," Zayn starts, but then she realises she has nothing to say, nothing she wants to get out, no apology, no accusation. 

"I'm sorry," Liam says, and the first thing Zayn thinks is _saved by the bell_. 

"For what?"

"Look," Liam says. She busies over her tea, turning her back to Zayn. Zayn wants to grip her hips and force Liam to face her, but it would be like getting her feet back into old footprints knowing there's a quicksand there. Zayn might be a masochist, but she isn't suicidal. "I was angry, and confused. I'm sorry if I made you think – I just don't want to ruin our friendship."

She's confusing her apologies, making an utter mess of it all – and of her tea, too – but Zayn doesn't feel charitable, for once. Let her explain. 

Liam lets go of the kettle and rests her hip against the table, looking down. "I'm sorry," she sighs again, shakily.

"You're back with -?" Zayn asks. She really doesn't know his name, fuck. 

"No, look, we broke up. He was an arsehole," Liam says, and somehow it hurts even more, knowing that she knows that but that it doesn't mean anything, doesn't mean that she wants Zayn. It's probably the hardest, being so close to being there with her, and still having that wall between them. It was fine when it was a real wall, with Zayn pining on one side and Liam dating jerks on the other, but now that there's Liam's sighs when Zayn eats her out and her hands clenching in the sheets Zayn's not sure what to do with it. 

"He was," she says, by lack of anything else to say. 

"Can we just – can we just be friends again?" Liam asks, and she sounds so pleading, so determined to make things go back to normal (she'll probably succeed, too) that Zayn's tempted to say yes for a second, make it easy. 

She rubs her forehead instead. "I can't – you can't just sleep with me and then write it off, Liam. That's not how it works."

Two fat tears roll out of Liam's eyes. It's like they were there since the beginning, ready to trail down if the answer was no, round and perfect and leaving salty trails as they swipe down Liam's cheeks and neck. Fuck her and her perfect dramatic timing, seriously. 

"Fuck, stop crying," Zayn mumbles. 

Liam sobs something Zayn can't understand. It's probably better that way. 

"Look, I – I love you, we're friends, okay," Zayn babbles. Her fingers are twitching. She hasn't had a smoke in forever, now that she thinks about it. "Just, it's not gonna be like it was before, that can't happen, you had to think about that before you kissed me back, okay, I'm not -"

"I'm sorry," Liam chokes out. "I said I was sorry, what can I do more?"

Zayn shrugs. A hard shiver shakes her shoulders. "Can you take it back?"

Liam looks at her, shakes her head. She's not crying anymore, her tears already drying on the skin of her cheeks. Zayn hates when that happens. It's so uncomfortable, prickly and salty. 

"Well, then," Zayn shrugs, and then there's nothing to else to say. 

The whole evening is painfully awkward, but it's almost better that way, easier for Zayn not to fall back into the same traps, snuggling into Liam in the couch and counting her eyelashes and feeding her Chinese because she can't work the chopsticks. Liam makes tea and gets biscuits out and they watch _CSI: Miami_ at a safe distance from each other. Zayn shuffles away when Liam tries to sit closer and Liam doesn't try again; they watch the episode in silence and when it's over they say good night the way they never did, and then Zayn slips into bed and she chokes on the emptiness. 

It's okay, though. Better than loving and not being loved back; and if it's not better right now, it probably will, in the long run. 

*

Liam doesn't date anyone for a while, and their friendship stitches itself back, like an old blanket you can never really lose because it was your mother's and your grandmother's before them, and if there are holes in it you ignore them because it keeps you kind of warm when you're sad and homesick. They go to exhibitions together and Zayn tries to explain modern art to Liam even though she's always liked the Impressionists better, of course. They eat together on campus and complain about exams; Liam stresses over her mid-sems and ends up not sleeping for three nights in a row because she 'has to study', until Zayn forces her into bed and promises to wake her up before seven. 

Zayn – well, Zayn gets better at not flinching at the moments of spontaneous tenderness, at leaning back into Liam without thinking 'this could be it', at pretending like Liam's hand on her knee doesn't activate all sorts of memories she'd rather leave buried. She succeeds, for the most part. She's nothing if not determined. 

Liam sits in for a few of their band rehearsals, tutting at Louise and Harry with the rest of them when they decide it's time for a make-out break. She's not really knowledgeable about punk music (duh), but it's nice to have her here all the same, frowning like she's trying to make out the meaning of the lyrics. 

"It's not Browning, Li," Niall jokes. "You don't have to analyse it."

Liam blushes. "I know," she says. "I just. Um. It's good."

Zayn laughs. She goes to wrap a hand around Liam's shoulder but she's all sweaty and gross, so instead she catches Niall's head in a noogie. Niall squeaks, flailing all around.

"You're horrible," Zayn says when she feels her eardrums are going to burst, letting her go. 

Niall grins at her, impish. "You love me."

Zayn crouches to get her water bottle from her bag to hide her smile. "Whatever," she says. 

"Hey, guys," Louise says from where she and Harry have apparently decided to stop treating them to their own softcore porno, "want to go and get drunk?"

Niall hollers at that, of course. Zayn mutters a quick, "Yeah," and even Aiden pipes up, looking up from her phone. "Sure," she says. "Can Matt come?"

Louise rolls her eyes. Zayn agrees with the sentiment, even though she isn't sure Louise has any right to talk, at this point. "Sure," Harry says. She gets her phone out. "You can ask Nick, Aid, I'll ask the others too, if that's good with you all?"

"Sure," they chorus. 

"I'm not sure -" Liam starts, reluctant as usual to do anything that involves alcohol (selfishly, Zayn would kind of agree with that, given the scintillating decisions she's been know to make when she's drunk), but Harry wraps an arm around her waist and smiles coyly up at her. To this day, Zayn's never seen anyone resist Harry's smile. 

"Sure," Liam says after a while, defeated. "I'll come. Not staying after eleven, though."

Niall whoops. They end up being a little dozen there, what with Nick, Matt, Caroline and Rita joining their crowd. Nick brings his new friends from his job at the uni's radio station, Alexa and Aimée, and Matt "Finchy" Fincham, his childhood best friend who's come to stay with him for a few days before going back to his fancy job at the BBC. They then proceed to get uproariously drunk. 

It works a charm – by eleven half of them are dancing on the table, Matt, Aiden and Nick grinding dangerously close to each other (Zayn's so not getting involved in that drama), Louise and Harry whispering obscene endearments in each other's ear. Niall and Rita are intensely involved in a drinking contest, which Rita appears to be winning. 

Liam has forgotten all about her plans of leaving, of course, and is explaining to Aimée in excruciating detail how exactly her turtle's foot got bitten off by her other turtle when she was sixteen. It's a tragic story, from what Zayn can hear of it. Somehow, Zayn is the most sober of them all, which is immensely unfair but also kind of a good thing since they'd forgotten to pick a designated driver, as usual. 

"But wait," Aimée is saying, shaking her head emphatically, "aren't turtles, like, vegetarian or something?"

Liam makes an 'o' face. "I know! I thought so! And then -" she starts sobbing, taking Aimée's hands in hers. Aimée pets her hair sympathetically. 

Zayn looks up where Nick and Aiden have now upgraded to kissing in a way that's making the bartender look at them with a mixture of admiration and disapproval. Matt is looking surprisingly okay with it all – and Nick as well, actually, considering how he's supposed to be, you know, gay. 

Niall and Rita are – okay, time to go. Zayn does not want to be in charge of a drunken orgy, thank you very. 

She rolls her sleeves up, trying not to register the drunken buzz in her veins, because she might be the most sober, she's still pretty hammered, and climbs on a table. Ian looks up at her and leers. 

"Down, boy," Zayn chides, and then completely ruins the effect by giggling at herself. "Okay," she says when she's caught her breath. "Time to go, guys."

The bartender shoots her a grateful smile. Zayn climbs down the table, trying to remember why she thought it was a good idea to go to all this effort to say three words. She takes Niall's hand, trying to disentangle her from Rita. 

"Niall," she says soothingly. "You're straight."

Niall glares up at her, looking half startled and half affronted, which would probably not be intimidating on her even if her mouth wasn't covered in smeared red lipstick. "Only sometimes," she protests. "Don't try to dictate my sexual identity just because I dated a few boys," she says. The hipster circle is clearly rubbing off on her. 

"Remember Josh?" Zayn says pointedly. 

Niall's eyes widen. 

"Yeah," Zayn says, nodding sagely. 

She manages to stuff most of them into cabs, ending up with only Louise, Harry and Liam on her hands. She's not even sure Louise and Harry are _that_ drunk – she saw them making out a lot but not really drinking. She snaps her fingers before their faces, trying to get them to pull away from each other. 

"Hey." Louise moans obnoxiously. " _Hey_ ," Zayn repeats, and since when is this her life, seriously? "Are you drunk?"

The question is unexpected enough to have Harry pull away, mouth swollen and obscene. "Wait, what?"

"Are you drunk?" Zayn sighs. Liam tugs on her sleeve, making a noise that's half sob and half giggle. 

Harry frowns. Louise touches her nose and giggles. "Not... too much?"

"I'm drunk on love," she declares, hugging Harry's middle. 

"Well, I'm not," Harry corrects, turning around to peck Louise on the lips. "But she's plastered."

"Can you take yourselves home?" Zayn asks. She hates being the sober one. Next time she'll remind Zayn about that not-drinking thing she's supposed to be doing. Health, my arse.

"Sure," Harry says agreeingly. She slips an arm around Louise's back. Zayn watches them wobble away for a minute; they'll be fine. 

The flat isn't far, so Zayn takes it upon herself to help Liam there on foot. She wraps Liam's limp arm around her own shoulders. They've both drunk considerably less than the others, but Liam has always been a lightweight, and Zayn has to hold her waist so she doesn't trip on her own feet every two steps. Liam keeps stumbling but she giggles, muttering quietly under her breath. Zayn tunes her out until she hears her own name in there, clear amidst the gibberish. 

"What?"

"Zayn," Liam repeats, smiling up at her. She's squinting a little, her eyes wrinkled at the corners. Zayn tries very hard not to find it adorable. "D'you love me?"

Yeah, Zayn definitely isn't a fan of drunk Liam. She sighs, trying to sound put upon, and not choked-up like she actually feels. 

"Of course I love you, Li. You're my best friend."

They finally reach the door – the five minute walk has never seemed so long to Zayn. Zayn fumbles to push the key into the lock. Liam twists around to look at her. "Then," she says, and stops to laugh as she tumbles inside. Her fingers curl on the zipper of Zayn's jacket. "Would you – yeah?"

She licks her lips. Zayn wants to say no. 

"Please," Liam says, her eyes glassy. 

She needs it, Zayn tells herself when she leans in and kisses her, sweetly, slowly. That's why I'm doing this, because she needs it. 

She knows she's lying to herself, but she doesn't really care. 

*

It's still awkward in the morning, but this time there aren't any convenient classes and when they wake up they're still entangled – Liam is the big spoon because she's taller, and Zayn's sort of curled up into her, the way she only would with Liam because she doesn't usually like cuddling all that much. All her exceptions are about Liam, anyway. 

Zayn's the first to wake up. Images of the night before flash in her mind: Liam kneeling between her legs, whispering things, sorry, I don't really know, tell me, yeah? And Zayn telling her, telling her, holding her head, pulling at her hair, screaming. God. A shiver runs through her, half from the memories and half because of the cold, because Liam's hogging the covers and Zayn's basically naked and freezing. Gee. She'll have to rethink that about Liam being generous, it's clearly bullshit. 

She thinks about moving, but it would probably wake Liam up and Zayn doesn't really want that at all, she's okay being a coward about it. God, that's sure to be emotionally draining, as well. Zayn wonders what'll happen when all the feelings will have been sucked out of her, exhausted; will her skin shrivel up and leave her an empty shell? That would be cool. Probably lonely, but cool. 

She tries to shimmy her hips so she can reach the bedside table, open the drawer and slip a cigarette out of her reserve pack, all that without waking Liam up. It's a little problematic with one of her arms trapped under Liam. In the end it proves even harder than expected – Zayn almost dislocates her shoulder wriggling her fingers to try and get the knob – but it's worth-it when she gets her fag between her fingers and some of the tension melts out of her almost immediately. That'll be her morning jogging, then, she thinks as she relaxes back into the pillows. 

Of course, she still has to get the lighter, and by the time she blows out her first perfect ring of smoke (Louise's passed-on wisdom) she's exhausted and sweating. God, she really ought to work out more. She takes leisurely drags on her fag, trying to see her room through Liam's eyes as her she looks at her walls. They're really a little embarrassing, when you think about it – way too many drawings of Liam to pretend Zayn's not as desperately in love with her as she is. All that's missing is her name tattooed over Zayn's heart (though Zayn's not lying to herself, at least four of her tattoos are sort of already about Liam). 

She can't resist the lure of blowing her smoke across Liam's collarbones. The smoke flows out of her mouth in spindly tangles that unravel when they hit the skin-covered bone, dissolving into pale nothingness. The odd ray of light that beams upon them dissects them and covers Liam's in white-golden dust. Zayn can't take her eyes off her. God, she's beautiful. 

She wakes up like that, of course, with Zayn looking at her, naked adoration in her eyes. She looks surprised for a second, just the time it takes for Zayn to blink and wish it away. 

"Hi," Liam croaks. 

Zayn takes a drag. "Hi," she answers, head resting on her elbow, and leans up to kiss her. 

"Morning breath," Liam warns, but she doesn't move away. 

The kiss feels like honey pouring down Zayn's throat, Liam's morning mellowness soothing the sharp sting of last night's bruises. It draws on, long and slick and unhurried; Zayn can't help but wish it were forever, uninterrupted. 

Liam chooses this moment to pull away. She flops back down onto the pillows, sighing softly. "I'm hungry," she says, making no movement to get up, like this is something for her too, the softness of the blinking silence. 

Zayn slips back into the bed and snuggles up to Liam, trailing a finger in the line between her naked breasts. The _I love you_ s she never said are tickling her tongue, but this is a moment and for once she won't ruin it. 

"C'mere," Liam rasps, eyes closed and nerved by very thin blue veins. Zayn does. 

*

Of course they have to get out of bed at some point, and they brush their teeth together by the sink, eyes half-closed as they trade smiles in the mirror. Liam makes them the same breakfast she always does, tea and pancakes with jam. She lays the pancakes out on plates because for once they have time, and they eat silently, face to face. Liam dips her finger into Zayn's jam and draws a smiley face on one of her pancakes; Zayn licks her finger clean, collects the indigo sugar on the side of Liam's hand with her tongue. 

Zayn tries to delay the talking bit for as long as she can – once a coward, always a coward –, but ventually Liam screws her eyes shut, sighing. 

"I -" she starts. 

"Look -" Zayn says at the same time. 

They both laugh nervously. 

Liam takes a deep breath, looking everywhere but at Zayn. "Look, let me say what I have to say, okay? Then you can talk." She smiles sadly. Zayn nods. "I'm not a lesbian. Thanks for looking after me, for... pity-sleeping with me or whatever. You're the best friend I ever had, and I'm so happy I found you again, and I hope I didn't screw this up by being stupid." She looks down, biting her lip. 

And Zayn – Zayn feels all the words she was about to say (what was she about to say? I love you? God, she's stupid. Has she always been that stupid? She never learns) slide back down her throat and settle like lead in her stomach. 

"You didn't," she says instead, once she feels like her voice is back to working order. "Of course we're friends, and we can – we can do this too, if it makes you feel better. I mean. If you want to." 

Liam looks up, surprised. Zayn feels her cheeks heat. She shouldn't have said it, Jesus, this is so pathetic, this last attempt at getting _something_ from her, anything more than friendship...

"Yeah," Liam says after a while, slowly. "I – okay."

They're holding hands, Zayn realises; Liam's ring is slowly imprinting its shape into Zayn's skin, pressing down against her flesh.

"I should go," Liam says eventually, as the silence lapses into something more comfortable, almost companionable. She smiles, but it's shy, sort of small. "D'you still want to do the... the drawing later?" 

That effectively snaps Zayn out of her trance. They're supposed to be doing the nudes, should have started last week, actually. "Sure," she says before she can think about it, sounding much more assured than she actually is. 

Liam smiles at her. "Great. We can meet here at five, how's that?"

Zayn's still a little dazed, but she nods. "Okay. She pours herself another cup of tea – God knows she needs it. "Tea?"

"No, I've gotta go. Thanks, though. I'll... see you tonight?"

Zayn hums, focused on pouring her tea. She's trying to locate the honey in her head – they had the good kind, thick and almost solid, Liam's mum brought some with her last time she came, if only Zayn could remember where they put it... 

She doesn't even register Liam before she's kissing her, and by the time she gets over the surprise Liam has already pulled away, her cheeks faintly red. Zayn licks her lips, blinks. Liam pecks her on the lips once again, as though to seal some kind of deal, and then she's gone. 

Zayn puts down the kettle to take her head in her hands.

Fuck. She's so screwed. 

*

She thinks about calling Louise before she goes – it's a tradition, they've gone every time they could since Zayn was fifteen and faked bravado as the needles came closer to her skin. She doesn't, though; she hangs up before Louise can answer and hopes she'll understand. 

It isn't really far, but Zayn is skipping two classes to go anyway. It's not that she wouldn't have the time otherwise, more that she wants it to be done before her bravery deserts her and she's left an unmarked, lovelorn fool. She feels hollow; something like freedom courses through her veins, only without the elation. 

Jack emerges from the back as she comes in, wiping his ink-stained hands on a dirty rag. "Hi, Zayn," he greets her. "Back for more already?" He sounds a little surprised. "I thought you said you'd wait a while."

He's the one who's been working on her sleeve for the past year now – her skin is his craft, and he's drawn an entire universe in the nooks and crannies of her skin, birds and floating banners, inscriptions in small, tight fonts, silhouettes and faces.

Zayn shrugs. "Little different, this time. Can you do me now?"

He arches a pierced eyebrow. "Sure, why not. You're the first client today, anyway. Put yourself at ease, yeah? I'll be right back."

Zayn sets her bag in one of the corners of the room, taking her jacket off and folding it atop the bag. She settles in the leather seat, sighing softly as it creases to accommodate her. She used to be scared, wary of the chemical scents and the sharp-looking tools, but with the years she's grown used to it all and now it's like a second home – as much as she's ever had a home anywhere, at least. 

Jack comes back into the room with his tools. "So, doll, d'you know what you want?"

"It's a little one," she says, pulling out the design from her pocket. It's hasty, done in the bus as she was coming, as faithfully as she could; it's lopsided but not exactly ugly, and the design is easily recognizable. She isn't sure the friendship bracelet Liam made her all these years ago looked exactly like that, but in Zayn's memory it does: a modest, coloured little thing, with four interwoven threads. Liam had meanings for each of them, she'd said as she made the bracelet, quietly focused: blue – _forever_ , red – _love_ , green – _friendship_ , orange – _God_.

Jack arches an eyebrow when he sees the design, but doesn't ask any questions. For once, Zayn feels grateful for his silent temperament. 

"Should take about an hour, all in all," he says, grabbing the design and starting to etch a final design on a clean sheet of paper. 

Zayn nods, even though he's not looking at her. "Yeah." She's going to miss another class, but it's not like she really cares. 

She settles into her chair and leans in to watch as the design progresses. Jack angles the sheet towards her. He works in silence, Zayn making small sounds of agreement when he draws something particularly ingenuous and quietly remarking if something doesn't agree with her. 

She breathes in the smell of ink sneakily, letting her body relax around it. Some of the tension bleeds out of her, and her stomach uncoils. _It's gonna be okay_ , she tells herself. It probably is, at some point. 

This, though. This means something. It's not just a tattoo – none of Zayn's tattoos are "just a tattoo", but this one is different. It's inking down a ghost, it's forcing it to stay here, for once, accepting its continuous presence and learning to live with it, this simple threaded braid running around her wrist. It doesn't need to be love, it can just be a memory, but it's here. Zayn can't ignore it now. 

The first sting is unexpected as it always is, makes Zayn bites down on her lip. Jack looks up to her, arches an eyebrow for _okay?_ Zayn nods. 

She lets her mind wander a little as Jack inks down the design, to forget the ache in the tender skin of her wrist. She thinks about rabbits and chickens and their fragile hearts that can stop if you clap your hands too hard. But she's not like that, she's a fighter, she's a rock star – only some things unravel her, Liam Payne and the strong, complex lines of a Klimt painting and _The Bell Jar_. 

She breathes out. 

It won't be that hard. She'll ask Liam to stand with her back to the sun, and she's big, warm and compact like a woman, the light will flow on her shoulders and into her hair, threading gold into the chestnut. It'll be beautiful. The heater will buzz and they'll get splinters from the hardwood floors and Liam will maybe kiss her again, if that's the mood she's in, if her decision still stands. 

But if she doesn't, Zayn can live with that, too. She has ten years of loving her behind her back, after all, messily thrown in with the orange lipstick and the dog-eared copy of _Crush_ , the one she doesn't show people too much because they tend not to understand or to want to borrow it and Zayn had to have it shipped, it was so hard to find. She can deal with her best friend not loving her back. 

"Done," Jack says eventually. Zayn blinks. She hadn't realised so much time had passed so quickly, but that tends to happen, doesn't it? "Wanna see it?" he asks. Zayn's already raising her wrist close to her face. 

The skin is still blotched and red, but the delicate threads are clearly visible, the colours popping from under the redness. The little black ties follow the line of her veins, curling around them like tiny adders. 

"I love it," Zayn says, quietly. She's never been one for displays of affection – that's Louise, and Harry, now. 

"Good," Jack says, putting his tools back into place in their case. "Don't move." He applies the gauze and the tape, recites the standard aftercare instructions. Zayn tunes him out – after all this time, she knows them by heart. 

"Great, thanks," she says when he's finished, pushing her sleeve back down over the tattoo. " I gotta go, I have class, but I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"For the sleeve?" he asks. 

"Sure," Zayn answers. 

"I'll see ya, then," Jack says, and leans back on his worktable. Zayn hovers at the door for a few seconds, letting the cold air rush in, and for the first time she wonders if he has a wife, children maybe, a boyfriend waiting for him with the little girl he picked up from school. If he goes to parent/teacher meetings where the only thing they have to tell him is that his daughter learned to make macaroni necklaces. If his mother died a long time ago or still harasses him to ask him to come home for a Sunday roast dinner. 

She shakes her head at herself. Maybe she's too young to wonder about these things. 

*

It's a nice day. Granted, it's cold, but Zayn has a scarf with a cool tribal pattern and she's pretty sure she didn't screw up her finals and Liam licked her out this morning before she left to wish her luck and it was pretty amazing. 

So yeah. it's a nice day.

She's walking with Aiden and Nick – for some reason that no one but them understands, they actually get on really well even when they're sober and not too busy macking on each other to actually _talk_ , despite everyone's fear that they would tear each other's head off on sight. Matt's visiting – well. If you can call it visiting. He's there pretty much ninety percent of the time, Aiden (and Nick, now, apparently) oblige. Zayn wouldn't be surprised if his actual uni had him listed as a visiting student and he only had a folding bed for the rare times he's back there. 

Nick is talking about some obscure band even Zayn doesn't know and comparing it to Rihanna, which, as much pity as Zayn feels for said band, has the merit of making Aiden laugh. In high school Zayn thought Aiden was a sect member and that she drank cow blood for fun, and only half of it was because of her goth outfits. The other was because of her _stares_. They were beyond terrifying. Sometimes Zayn is so happy about Matt's existence she could kiss him. (Actually, no. Five o' clock shadow, ew.)

Anyway, the point is, it's a nice day, Nick and Aiden are apparently on their way to becoming best buddies via atrocious shaming of unknown bands (knowing Nick, it's probably punk Norwegian avant-garde rap or something like that) and polyamorous shagging, everything is good. 

And then Zayn sees Liam. 

The thing about Liam, see, is that she can actually determine Zayn's mood in a second. Liam is happy, Zayn radiates the slow, glowing warmth of contentment; Liam is sad, Zayn breaks down inside, mold-covered piece after mold-covered piece falling off the edifice of her body. The slighter changes don't affect her, of course, but Zayn hates it all the same – she's her own person, thank you very much, she can control her emotions. The worst are the big ones, the hurricane changes, when Liam's surface ripples and breaks; then Zayn can't help but fold too, as though she were a domino, devoid of control. She abhors it. 

Liam is leaning against someone else, a boy; his hair is blond and he's smiling, teeth Colgate white and American-looking. He looks like a character from a cartoon, and Liam laughs at something he says, throwing her head back. 

Aiden sighs, jerking her out of her thoughts. "You can't let her do that to you," she says, her eyes dark and accusing. 

It's funny how everything can turn hard in a second, Zayn thinks – now the sun beats down on her shoulders like guilt, everything in the air is crisp, sharp pollen and tentacular conversations slapping in her periphery. 

"What are you talking about?" Zayn says. She tugs her sleeve down reflexively to hide, the still-fresh tattoo, wincing when the fabric brushes over the still-sensitive skin. 

"You know what I'm talking about."

"She's right, love," Nick says, wrapping a long arm around Zayn's shoulder. Zayn tries to shake him off, but he's having none of it. His thin, ring-adorned fingers dig into the flesh of her arm. "You have to stop pining for Liam. You're just hurting yourself, love. How long has it been, eh? Three years?"

Aiden glances at her, her feline eyes full of _you see, it's not just me_. It's only concern, Zayn knows that, but she can't help but bristle under it. "Says the guy who can't hold a relationship for more than two months," she snaps.

It's a little vicious, but Nick shrugs it off, smiling with the corner of his mouth. "We're not talking about me, love. I'm fine with my non-existent relationship skills. You, on the other hand," he brings a finger to her face and smooths out a wrinkle on her forehead, "it's making you all frowny and sad. Come on. You'll find another girl."

"I can take care of myself," Zayn says instead of _I really won't_ , because it sounds cheesy and cliché and it's so true it hurts. It's a very specific kind of pain, actually – an old childhood ache that resonates in her bones, whose roots sit in every nerve of her body. It's like an old missing limb, its absence still itches, tantalizing. 

But Zayn's never really been good with words. 

"Obviously not," Nick says, kissing her cheek. Zayn recoils, but she can't help but smile. 

"We need to fix this," Nick says. Zayn sees him brush a thumb over the knobs of Aiden's spine at the small of her back. Aiden leans into it. Zayn doesn't know what to think of it, so she doesn't. "I think we should get drunk."

Zayn rolls her eyes. "You always think we should get drunk."

Nick pouts. "That's because it's obviously the answer to every problem on universe," he says. 

Aiden chuckles. "How grown-up."

But Zayn isn't watching Liam anymore, so it's all good, really. They go to the bar and Nick does shots off of Aiden's shoulders, licks between the sinews and makes her squirm, smiling sloppily. 

Three shots in Zayn is wishing she'd done twice as much with her life, let go of her cowardice and her elitist love at eighteen, stuffed her melancholy in a backpack and travelled through Europe, burned scars on her skin to remind herself that she's lived. She feels like she spent ten years in a limbo, waiting in a train station for a ship to arrive, like she's been blind and naïve and stupid. But it's probably the booze. 

Aiden tips her head on Nick's shoulder; he looks down at her, his eyes bright with greed. Zayn wonders how they manage the jealousy and the touching, if there even are rules. Probably not. Aiden's never been very good at rules. 

Niall swings by around midnight. She stumbles into the bar, lips attached to Josh's, and when she sees them she smiles, her own version of caught in the act. Even then, she only looks happy. Envy brands Zayn's skin like a hot iron for a second; then the pain ebbs away, foam dissolving in the salty water. She stands up, trying not to wobble and failing. 

"Hey," she says. It comes out a shout.

Josh and Niall smile at her, creepily coordinated. "Hi," Niall grins. Seeing her be shy is strange, somewhat unwelcome. 

"Cheers," Zayn says. She raises them her glass and downs it all in one go. She doesn't know what it is, exactly, but it tastes like it could use more sugar and more acid. Zayn won't be satisfied until it doesn't make her brain go blank. 

"You should have told me no," she says, weakly pounding a fist over Niall's shoulder. The varnish on one of her nails is chipped. 

Niall yelps. "About what?" she asks. Her eyes are still shining. Zayn probably shouldn't bother her with her problems, usually she does like everyone and pretends not to be selfish, but tonight she's too drunk to care. 

"Moving in with Liam. Did any of you ever think it was a good idea?" Zayn asks, accusatory. Imagine. Thinking about Liam breathing on the other side of the concrete wall, aching like a clock, cogs clucking. 

Niall's eyes darken a little. "You should go back to your flat, Zayn," she says, trying for gentle but missing the mark by almost nothing. 

Zayn shrugs. She rummages in her pockets. There's a rolled-up joint in her wallet. Aiden and Nick are full-on making out in the background now, and aren't they perfectly dysfunctional? Surely Zayn's not the only charity case in this fucked-up group of friends. "Whatever," she mumbles. She drums her nails on Niall's hip once, _good night_ , then slips past them to find a dark corner where the music is loud enough that she doesn't hear herself thinking. 

When she kisses a black girl with glitter stuck to her temples and skull, she half-wonders if it's cheating. Then the music takes over, makes her bones rattle like a high tide, and it doesn't really matter anymore. 

*

It's not an arrangement. No one is happy with it, except maybe Zayn's drawing teacher, who keeps gaping at her paintings and says she'll have no trouble passing, she should really exhibit somewhere. Zayn wants it, but once again it's Liam holding her back – because exhibiting those paintings would be like turning her skin inside out and asking everyone to peer at it, dissect her. There's one where Liam is holding her chin up, and she doesn't look like herself, she looks vibrant and sensual and red and Zayn wonders when she could have changed because she was looking the whole time. 

They sleep together. Zayn never asks, only waits for Liam to come back home and to her. And she does – she does, that's the worst part, sometimes she comes in at six a.m. with a hard face and she climbs over Zayn's lap, discards the drawing pad and mouths hungry kisses at her neck. Sometimes Zayn would've preferred to keep drawing, because in many ways she prefers Liam like she is on her drawings, understated and beautiful with vibrant eyes, to this one with her mess of mistakes and moans. But she always gives in. It's her role in this, whatever this is. She's a pro at giving in. 

Other times it's happier, they're watching _Game of Thrones_ and Liam laughs, small and shy, and she takes Zayn's hand and puts it on her stomach, looks up at her askance. It should look selfish but the melted brown of her eyes makes it important instead.

It's not what Zayn wanted, it'll never be what she wants, and sometimes she catches Liam mouthing words at herself in the mirror and she knows what she's thinking. Zayn never got the point of hating yourself, though maybe saying that is hypocritical. Liam would probably tell her that what she does – the drinking, the careful carelessness and reckless intimacy – is another version of it, this subtle self-disdain, but Zayn never got the point of hating yourself like Liam does, choosing something and trying to push it out at all costs. 

She knows she'll crack at some point. She'll hold Liam down, bruise her wrists and tell her: "You like girls, Liam." It's not even that much. That important. But Liam was brought up in a world of rosaries and white dresses and she thinks in black and white. She can be so very mean. Zayn knows she goes to church when she comes back to her mother's house for the holidays. She wonders what she tells the priest. 

Liam used to go to mass every Sunday when she was a kid, too. Zayn remembers asking her what it was like, imagine sect-like capes and musky scents of dripping wax, stone-carved angels looking down at you with empty eyes. Her imagination ran wild with gothic fantasies, and Liam wouldn't tell her anything about it, said she had to come and listen to the priest talk. Zayn said she wasn't interested in hearing Mr Rogers pontificate. The word made her laugh ('pon-ti-fi-cate': she'd found it on her mother's lips, had asked for the meaning but hadn't gotten it exactly – for her it was like a rough gem still waiting to be carved). 

She sneaked in one day. She was twelve, and nothing was sacred, not even the big stone building with its mouldy doors and dark silence. There were a few people sitting on the benches, their heads bowed as though the gaze of the man on the cross was too much for them to bear. _iesus of nazareth, king of the iews_ , Zayn read. 

There was a passion of the Christ on the walls, under the ex-votos. Zayn followed the steps, trying not to cough from the burned smell of incense and candles. She was underwhelmed by what she saw – the God her parents adored was shinier, brighter, funnier. Zayn didn't want to believe in any god, at nine. She didn't think it was necessary. 

Now she's eighteen she wishes faith was something that came more easily to her, and for the right people. All she can manage is the asthmatic faith she has in Liam, and it's exhausted, wheezing – she wishes she had a lying god to build it back up with notions of loyalty and eternal friendship. Maybe Liam is right, after all. 

Their friends don't like it, but they have their own problems. Aiden and Matt are still playing their little game with Nick, or maybe it's the other way around. Zayn keeps her distance. The others are either stupidly happy or stupidly sad, extremist and young and punk and they come out days of the week and sometimes even rope Liam into coming with them. Friendship is so much easier when you're intoxicated. 

There's a tipping point, an expiration date. Zayn's rarely been more sure of anything since the day her gerbil died and her mum told her that sometimes people went to sleep forever and Zayn realised she didn't really mean sleep at all. If she were a better person, she could probably drink what she has to the last drop, carpe diem and all that, but she's ridden with darkness and the end nags at her, tries to tie its two extremities together through her body. 

She doesn't know when they started sleeping in the same bed. It's a strange kind of ritual – Liam goes to sleep in her own bed every night, but twenty minutes later she slips into Zayn's room and plasters herself to Zayn's back, her eyelashes fluttering against Zayn's shoulder blades. Zayn pretends to be asleep for her sake. She's done much worse things for her, after all. 

Liam always wakes up early in the morning. She pads to the kitchen and makes breakfast for the two of them, and when they leave the bed in her room is always perfectly made. They don't speak about it. Zayn shuts up and smiles at Liam over the rim of her mug. 

She doesn't talk. She listens for the bomb in Liam's ribcage, tries to guess the time of the detonation. 

*

Liam comes home late on Friday night. She had a date with a guy from her chem class (she takes chem as an extra credit, and that's another thing about Liam that makes Zayn want to push her against the wall and kiss her breathless). He's funny and good-looking, perfect in every way except the obvious. Zayn should be happy for her and wish her the best, but instead she just feels cold dread and a vague nausea. 

She waits up with the second season of _The Wire_ , which is depressing enough to make her guzzle down a whole bottle of red wine even though she stopped doing that when she was sixteen and she decided getting drunk alone was too pathetic for her. 

Liam comes back at ten thirty. Zayn forces herself not to run to the door when she hears the key rattle in the lock. She's pathetic enough as it is, thank you. 

"Hi," she says when Liam comes in and starts walking to her bedroom without bothering to switch the lights on. 

Liam jumps, clutching at her chest. "You scared me," she says with a nervous little laugh. 

"Sorry," Zayn says. She pats the couch besides her. "How did it go?" she asks, trying to sound casual. 

Liam makes her way to the couch, exhaling a deep sigh. She cuddles into Zayn's side, and Zayn tries to ignore the shiver that shakes her whole body. "Badly. Why did you wait up?" she asks, looking up at Zayn. 

Zayn looks away. "I didn't, I just wanted to finish _The Wire_. I didn't think you'd be home that early."

Liam's face falls, but Zayn refuses to feel guilty. There's nothing to feel guilty over. Liam made it clear: she doesn't want them to be together. There's nothing more here.

"Well," Liam says, and it's a bit curt, but it doesn't matter. It really doesn't. "Maybe next time."

Zayn knows better than to ask what happened or say that next time probably won't be better. She just tilts her face down when Liam kisses her, slips her fingers under her throat. 

Liam pulls away. She makes a face. "You taste like alcohol."

Zayn points to the bottle of wine. Liam always makes her feel like that, like she's done something wrong, but she hasn't. She's who she is. It's not a crime. "It's nothing," she says. 

Liam looks ready to say something, but in the end she doesn't. She stands up and takes Zayn's hand, leads her to the bedroom. Zayn flicks the light off before she asks. She's used to it, by now. 

*

(When Liam sees the tattoo she doesn't say anything, just waits until they're in the dark and kisses it with her teeth, draws tiny bruises around it, inking the irregular pattern into Zayn's bones. Zayn doesn't know how to take it, so she forgets it. That's what she does with the things she can't keep from hurting.)


	3. Chapter 3

  
**part iii.**

_i try to compensate her lack of love with coffee cake / ice cream and a bottle of ten dollar wine she says hey_ ([x](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q674L_jJIck))  


  
Zayn sees the beginning of the new year in a bathtub with her thighs open and her necklace between her teeth, the hot silver burning a new scar on the inside of her cheek.

"Yes," she moans, "there, there..."

She says it like you stroke an upset best friend's hair crying about a lost boyfriend, whiny and high and rough at the back of her throat. It's not there, it's not even near. 

The girl darts her tongue in response, slides her fingers against Zayn's clit, a slick, wicked slide that sends stars banging against Zayn's skull like fireworks. 

Zayn sees the beginning of the new year on a comedown, soft stars fading against her eyelids, when it's already begun. She's used to being late, and what's done is done, so she doesn't cry about it – she lights a cigarette and she tries to make smoke rings that don't look like the ones she did the year before. 

*

She has a lecture at nine so she drags herself out of the party around three. When she stumbles out the wind slaps her across the face like it's disappointed in her. Zayn can almost hear Liam's reproaches already, but it doesn't make her walk slower. 

Her flat is a few miles away and this night's a desert night, the cold pricking the back of her thighs. Zayn stuffs one of her hands in her pocket and lights a cigarette with the other, sticking it between her teeth with a smooth wrist. It's an old trick – she learned it in high school, when she was the rebel used-to-be-popular who painted her nails black. 

She's gone through three of them by the time she reaches the flat, and when she does she almost climbs the stairs four by four, thighs aching from the walk and the orgasm. She undresses down to her underwear in the living-room in the dark, lets her clothes fall haphazardly around her, necklaces clinking.

She probably shouldn't, she tells herself as she doesn't take the corridor to her room and opens Liam's door instead. It's always that; she should do things but it's Liam instead, every time – she opens the wrong door and calls the wrong name when she comes and goes to the wrong classes because it's her, it's her and she's fucking intoxicating and Zayn always feels drunk when she's with her but it's the bad kind of drunk, the kind that makes you want to puke and threatens to put you into alcoholic coma. 

She slips into Liam's bed anyway, tries not to make too much noise and winces a little when the sheets rustle around her as she folds her knees on the mattress. The soft fabric of Liam's pyjamas is warm against the skin of her belly. Liam twitches, and she holds her breath, praying harder that she's ever prayed for anything for Liam to not wake up, because Liam waking up means explaining herself and making up a lie to stop her from saying, _I drank my love for you until it filled me and then I threw it up twice, and still I can't get rid of it_. 

Tomorrow's headache is already pounding in her head. Zayn sleeps. 

*

In the morning Liam makes breakfast for them like she always does and doesn't mention the night before. Zayn is pretty sure it's because she looks like shit, but it's not like _she_ wants to talk about it, so she shuts up and eats her pancakes. 

"I though Niall was supposed to sleep over," she says between two bites, maple syrup dripping on her chin.

"I think she slept over at Josh's," Liam says, flipping over a pancake. Zayn tries not to notice the way her pyjama pants hang low on her hips, baring a stripe of creamy skin, and fails. "When's your first class?"

"Nine," Zayn groans. She feels like her body's in the wrong skin, wishes she could itch her way out. 

Liam smiles at her from over the brim of her mug of orange juice, the one that Harry got for them when she went to Australia for three months on her first year and that says, _my best friend went to Australia and all I got was this lousy mug_. "You here tonight?" she asks, taking a sip. 

Zayn wishes she could ignore the way heat flares up in her belly when Liam licks her lips like that. She wishes she could not be in love with Liam, actually, because unrequited love is a bitch and Liam is her best friend, but it's a worn-out wish, she doesn't even pay attention to it anymore. Too bad she never got what she wanted, right?

"Nope, rehearsal with the girls, sorry," she says. "You?"

"I think i'll ask Jason to come over," Liam says, blushing pink high on her cheeks, and Zayn wants to say _he's another arsehole who's going to fuck you and break your heart_ but she doesn't because it sounds like jealousy and Liam doesn't like it, anyway. There's nothing Zayn likes less than seeing Liam's face fall, especially when it's because of her. 

"Yeah," Zayn says. It's empty, but she doesn't care. 

She ends up leaving without finishing her pancake. She just doesn't feel hungry anymore. She tosses a quick "bye" behind her, avoiding looking into Liam's eyes and trying not to listen to the sound of the door closing harshly behind her. 

*

Her classes are fucking annoying, as usual, and her classmates are even stupider than usual. Zayn smokes the boredom away during the breaks and doodles on her notebook. She scratches the entire page and rips it every time what she's drawing gets too close to Liam's face.

"Your notebook looks fracking ridiculous," Niall says when she drops next to her at lunch. "Why're half the pages ripped?"

Zayn glares at her. Niall laughs. "You look like a racoon," she says. 

Zayn wants to tell her that it's _smoky eyes_ , but it'd probably sound bitchier than she wants to be. Not that Niall cares, anyway. "Heard you shagged Rebecca Ferguson last night," she continues, rummaging in her bag as she searches for a pen, wolf-whistles slowly. A nearby customer throws her a reprobating look and she holds her hands up, laughing. They look appropriately mellowed. no one can resist Niall. 

She turns back towards Zayn. "Cheers on that," she says slyly, leering. 

"Aren't you supposed to be straight?"

"I'm with a guy _now_ , it's not the same thing," Niall says, and then adds, looking pensive: "Though we're having _fantastic_ sex. Like, did I tell you about that time with the -"

Zayn tunes out, watching Niall's hands move as she tells her story, her cheeks red from excitement. She's really pretty – it'd have been so much easier to fall in love with her. If only Zayn had good ideas once in a while, instead of living with song lyrics and modernist poetry as guidelines.

"Hey," Niall flicks Zayn's cheek. "Listen to me, arsehole. I'm sure you could learn a thing or two about eating a girl out."

Zayn cocks an eyebrow. "Are you even gonna go there, Horan?"

"Oh, I am. Josh is a cunnilingus _master_."

Zayn rests her chin on Niall's shoulder, tilting her head to try to swallow the dust of her friend's sunny happiness. 

*

When she gets to the rehearsal space, Harry is straddling Louise's hips and her lips are attached to Louise's neck. Their breathy moans fill the warm air. Zayn watches Louise's hands trail up Harry's back and tries not to shiver at how intimate it feels, Louise's fingers lingering on each knob of Harry's spine. 

"See you've been keeping busy," she remarks drily. 

They don't even look surprised; they stay draped around each other, Harry's naked thighs pressing against Louise's belly. The way they melt into each other is still terrifying. It must be exhilarating from the inside but Zayn's always worried that sometimes their limbs will stay locked together and their mouths won't part when they pull away. 

"Nice mood today, Malik," Louise remarks as she stands up, carrying Harry like a princess for a few steps. She puts her down in front of her guitar. 

"Aiden coming?" Harry asks, raising an eyebrow. Zayn shares her last class with her, so usually they come there together. 

"Said she wanted to do something before. Probably off having a quickie with Nick in the school bathrooms," she says. The girls laugh. 

Aiden ends up getting there half an hour later, her hair ruffled her neck adorned with a purple hickey so big it could've been made by a vacuum cleaner. They play three songs and then, when they get bored with it, sit in a circle on the floor and pass a joint around. 

"So Zayn," Louise says at some point, petting Harry's hair. Harry's poured half into her larm, an arm wrapped around Louise's neck. "When're you going to stop moping over Liam?"

"Yeah," Aiden concurs, "either man the fuck up or forget about her."

"I'm not in love with Liam," Zayn says, but it sounds unconvincing even to her own ears. She's said it so many times. 

She doesn't want to talk about it – especially when it would mean telling the girls about how she's been sleeping with Liam while Liam still dates guys, and she doesn't need a fortune teller to predict how that one is going to go down. She takes a swig cranberry vodka and lets her throat burn because that's why she's here. Liam's got nothing to do with it, or with anything. 

*

It happens on a Thursday night. Zayn isn't drunk, for once. She's wearing dark eye-shadow and she's planned to go out and dance with the gang. Nick sent her a picture of them all in party dress, glitter high on their glass-cutting cheekbones, and it made Zayn buzz with energy. 

She's half out the door when Liam calls her back. "Where are you going?"

Zayn turns around. Liam's eyes are cold, and it makes Zayn angry, more than is probably reasonable. But Zayn isn't a reasonable girl, never was. "Out," she says. 

"Oh," Liam says, managing to put more condescension and snark in that one word than she could have in an entire sentence. Louise's been rubbing off on her.

"Is there a problem?" Zayn asks. She's calm, she tells herself, trying to make her fists uncurl at her sides. Her nails are long, painted. Zayn always dresses to be ready for war. 

"No," Liam says. It's fake and contrived and it doesn't sound like her at all. 

"Obviously something's wrong here," Zayn insists. She doesn't know why she's doing it. She pre-gamed a little, a few glasses of wine because she likes to already be there when she gets in the club to avoid getting the half-glimpse of gritty misery and harsh, sober reality. Favourite cocktail, eh? Vodka and anger. Someone keep a lime for her on the side. God, her head's swimming. She used to be so much younger. 

"You can do what you want," Liam says, crossing her legs primly at the ankle. "I just wish you were more responsible, for your own sake."

" _For my own sake_ ," Zayn repeats, and she can't help laughing. Liam looks up, diamond sharp. When did she get that sharp? She was soft and mellow when they started, something must have gone wrong. "And what the fuck do you know about my sake? Since when do you even care?"

Liam has the gall to look offended. "I've always cared about you, Zayn. I thought you knew that."

"Right," Zayn drawls. She's too good at this – number two in the list of things that will be the death of her, after the girl standing before her, with her stupid hair and plaid shirt and beautiful, beautiful soul. "You've always cared about me. Like the time where you slept with me for the first time, right? Or the time you got back with your douchebag boyfriend after that?"

"It wasn't -"

"You care so much about me, I bet you really felt fucking sorry for breaking my fucking heart, didn't you, Li? Does it still keep you up at night?"

"I don't -" 

Zayn's shoes are hurting the sole of her feet, as though the heels were trying to pierce through the leather and her skin. "You can go to hell with your well wishes," she spits, calmer than she feels. 

She goes for the knob, stops as she's opening the door to deliver the parting shot. "And you know what? Look at yourself before you start judging everyone, why don't you, Miss Perfect? Start by admitting to your mirror that you like pussy, and then we'll talk about me."

She's done now. When she slips outside the wind is cheering for her, a high-pitched whine that makes her stumble and plasters her coat to her shoulders. _Well done, baby girl_ , it howls. 

_Yeah_ , she thinks dumbly. Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she draws it out only to see Nick's grinning face blinking at her. She'll need more alcohol before she gets to the dance floor, she thinks as she picks up. 

*

They make up. They always make up, maybe that's the problem; maybe they should just hash it out and admit that this isn't working, that it was never going to work. But Zayn's always been a coward, that's not exactly news – not to mention the way her lungs contract when she thinks about not having Liam in her life anymore, because that's one of the ways this story ends, and the thing is, Zayn couldn't deal with it. She's not even sure it's still love, but she's gotten so used to it, scraping her crumbs of happiness every morning on Liam's skin and trying to live on that, seeing her when she comes home, sprawled on the couch, drinking her tea, watching her chick flicks, helping her with her essays. Life without Liam just isn't a possibility. 

So Zayn doesn't ask, doesn't say. She buys one of those _pains au raisin_ Liam likes at the fancy French bakery just off-campus and passes it off as a apology, which Liam accepts because she's Liam and she can't stay mad. She must know. She must know that were Zayn to look inside herself and search for it she wouldn't find that apology, instead a big fat _please_ , one of those pathetic pleading neon signs that only exist in shitty 90s movies. She must know, and that's why she doesn't ask. Liam doesn't like conflict; that's nothing new either. 

It's not that bad, Zayn thinks some days, when she wakes up before Liam and pushes the window ajar, quietly blowing her smoke in the half-dark, elbows resting on the cold concrete. When she can hear herself think it's not all that hard to convince herself that some people have it worse than sleeping with the person they love, even though she won't quite admit to loving you back. _Don't be a pussy, Zayner_ , she tells herself, imagining a burly big brother on the rowing team, but it only makes her laugh at herself.

Sure, it's not what she'd imagined when she'd gone off to university, but isn't that the case for most? People get their dreams crushed every day, it's not that big of a deal – and it has to happen, too, otherwise the world would only be ballerinas and football superstars, and then who would toil away in offices and make everything run smooth? Maybe the artists have it a little harder than the rest, what with being natural idealists and all that, but the dust settles, Zayn knows that. How many of her parents' friends who are now bankers and teachers spent their youth backpacking through impossibly-named European countries? 

She tosses on a T-shirt, enjoying the way the cloth feels over her cold-hardened nipples. Her first class is at two – maybe she'll get some drawing in, or even try her hand at lyrics, like Louise suggested. She can make herself tea and squander her morning away watching the sun set in over the campus from the corner of her eye. She'll be fine. There's nothing to worry about. 

She crushes her cigarette on the window sill, feeling a brief pang of guilt: Liam doesn't like her doing that, and the way Zayn says she'll clean it later but invariably forgets makes her sigh her big-sister sigh. Zayn will, though – do it later. She comes back to the bed and shakes Liam's shoulder. 

"Hey," she says softly, her voice a little rough from the cigarette, "wake up, sunshine."

It occurs to her belatedly that she might've made coffee, or tea, maybe even a couple ot pieces of toast with jam. It's exactly the kind of thing Liam would do spontaneously, but Zayn just bypasses it without really thinking; she can hardly remember to eat herself, how would she manage it for someone else? Still. She thinks about rushing to the kitchen and quickly squeezing that orange that's been sitting in the fruit bowl for nearly two weeks now, but before she can put her thoughts into action Liam stirs under her hand.

She blinks, looks up, her face adorably crumpled. Zayn's heart seizes briefly. "Hey," she repeats. 

The corner of Liam's lip crooks in a smile. "Hey," she croaks back.

Zayn hovers on the balls of her feet, nervous for some inexplicable reason. Sometimes she wishes she could keep Liam like this, when she's mellow and unthinking, shoved deep into that half-coma of sleeplessness. It seems like it would be so much easier: those first minutes always feel like the continuation of a dream, where Liam doesn't ask, doesn't avoid Zayn's eyes, but instead rubs her thumb at the edge of Zayn's jaw and kisses like it means something.

By the time she jolts back out of her fantasy Liam is already sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg into her sweat pants. "I was thinking of going running," she says, fastening the clip of her watch. She looks up at Zayn. "Do you wanna come?"

Zayn swallows back the toast and the kiss. She feels stupid all of a sudden, standing there in the middle of the room in her T-shirt and boxers. She crosses her arms against her chest, shakes her head. "No thanks, I'm fine."

Liam tilts her head. "Okay," she says neutrally. "Another time." Zayn wonders if this is really so nondescript for her, a morning in the string of mornings, no discernible from the one before. Probably. The difference is all in Zayn's head.

"Sure."

This permanent generosity of Liam's (the way she says _another time_ , when they both know that there won't be one, that Zayn is never going to go out at seven a.m. in the cold wearing a tracksuit, of all things), as though she was leaving the door open for Zayn to choose what she wants, irritates her. Sometimes it makes her fond, but today it seems hypocritical: why say things like that when Liam won't open the same doors to herself, won't grant herself the same freedom of choice? 

But before Zayn can gather her non-existent courage and talk to Liam about it, Liam's breezing past her and through the door, an apple Zayn didn't even know they possessed stuck between her teeth. She smiles around it. 

"Bye," she says with a quaint little wave, even though it's less a word than a noise that stretches around the fruit. "See ya la'er."

Zayn waves back. Liam smiles one more time and jogs through the door. Crisp wind gusts through the door; Zayn wraps her arms around herself, squinting to watch Liam run right into the sun. 

*

There's something about Liam's body – maybe the way Zayn can push her thumbs against her flesh and watch as it invariably turns into a purpling bruise – that mystifies Zayn. She's drawn it hundreds of times, probably more, but she still feels like she hasn't gotten the hang ot it, and there's something awe-inspiring about that. 

"Don't move," she says, rushing to get a wide brush from the table. She'd been working on the details, but a slant of light just hit Liam's side, brutally honest as it streamed down from the open window.

And maybe, maybe this is somewhere that isn't their apartment where Liam is still hers, where she smiles unbidden and gives in to kisses and nips. Maybe Zayn is greedy and she'll take every excuse to be near her without the gnawing of jealousy and heartache – so what? What does that make her? Selfish? She can be selfish. Liam is altruistic enough for two.

Zayn touches the tip of her brush to the canvas and pointedly doesn't think about how long it's been since she's started it. It's just that she knows – once it's over it'll be back to the long evenings afternoons waiting for Liam to come back from her dates, back to pretending that what they do doesn't exist because they do in the dark, and Zayn's not sure she can cope with that. She can paint slower. She can take all the damn year to finish that painting if she has to – if that's what it takes. Besides, there's honesty to it: Zayn never feels like she can do justice to the subtlety of Liam's face, its broad honesty and soft prescience. Maybe this time – 

"Don't move," she repeats absently. 

Liam blushes but stills in place all the same. Zayn thinks about colouring the cheeks red on the painting but resists the urge. She can be serious, sometimes. 

She slathers beige over the canvas, smiling to herself. 

"You're gorgeous," she tells Liam. 

Liam ducks her head, her eyes warm. 

There's a moment of silence, suspended in the air with the dust, where Zayn tries to decide what Liam's eyes are saying. But then there isn't doubt and she lets go of her brush to walk to Liam. She stumbles on the foot of the low table in her haste, and Liam laughs when she shrieks in pain. Zayn pouts. 

"Come here," Liam says, holding out a hand. 

Zayn takes it; Liam draws her close. Her arm slips down Zayn's side and her hand cups the sharp bone of her hip, brushing a finger over it. 

"Hi," Zayn says breathlessly against her mouth. 

The kiss is slow, leisurely and Liam-like. There's something disturbing in the way Liam always kisses like she means it. Zayn doubts she's capable of dishonesty, and as much as she tries the no-strings-attached thing, she's utterly shite at it. She always gets too involved. Zayn does resent her a bit for it; she's the one that ends up hoping, after all, when Liam smiles at her like she wants nothing more than stay there forever. But you get used to it. You get used to everything – right? 

Liam's hands settle on her hips, drawing her closer until they're chest to chest, Liam's nipples hardening against the cloth of Zayn's shirt. 

"C'mere," Liam repeats, a little uselessly. 

They tangle, the painting forgotten in one of the corners of the room. It's funny and sort of tragic how sex with Liam never feels like enough and always feels like too much at the same time, the way moving inside her is so similar to moving outside of her, Zayn's breath cut short every time Liam does something unexpected.

Liam pushes the jacket off of Zayn's shoulders easily; it slides on her skin and hits the ground with a soft rustle. "Hello, gorgeous," Liam says cheekily as she traces a finger over Zayn's top, between her breasts. 

Zayn bites her cheek in retaliation, and Liam squeaks a little. It's easy to forget that they're not real when it's like that, playful and easy and hot. Zayn always feels like she has everything she wants, everything she needs, for a few minutes, hours, if she's lucky. 

Oh, it doesn't matter. She can be selfish too. Here, she can take; she can take all she wants. Liam will let her take her fill. She pretends to be shy, but she isn't – she uses her body to convince herself, to please herself, to carry herself; uses it like a very careful weapon. Maybe she doesn't realise it, but she does.

Liam sinks to her knees in the middle of the room. "Yeah?" she asks, looking up, her palms splayed over Zayn's thighs, and Zayn laughs, head tipped back, breathlessly. 

"Yeah," she says, and it means _of course_. As if she was going to say no to that. 

Liam bites her lip, probably trying for sexy but ending up somewhere closer to endearing. She pushes Zayn backwards, towards the table. Zayn slips her top off and throws it, balled, in one of the corners of the rooms. She isn't wearing a bra, and her nipples stand erect and pink in the warm air. Liam says something Zayn doesn't hear over the blood rushing in her ears. 

Liam tugs on Zayn's jeans legs. Zayn gets the message, holds a leg up and works on getting her pants off. God, she should really stop doing her jeans shopping with Harry and Nick, they really are indecently tight. She wouldn't be surprised if they caused circulation problems. 

She finally manages to extract herself. Liam laughs a little as she squats forward on her knees, pressing the bone of her nose to Zayn's damp boxer-shorts. Zayn swallows a short, surprised noise. Liam's hands take better hold of her thighs, her fingers circling the flesh and digging in as though they were made of dough. 

She's good at sex. Zayn was a little surprised at first – after all, she _is_ quite a prude, but in bed she's much more liberated. It makes sense, when you think about it: she's always trying to please someone, so much that she sometimes forgets to please herself. Zayn doesn't forget, though. 

Zayn's the one who taught her to laugh during sex. They probably need it more than anything, actually, what with their everyday friendship being... difficult, to say the least, but the sex feels good whether or not the rest of their life is slowly going to shit with all the things unsaid. There's nothing quite laughing in Liam's open mouth when Zayn's fucking deep inside her, huffing short puffs of laughter near her ears, in her hair. 

For now, though, Zayn isn't laughing. She's moaning, a slow, continuous moan, only broken when she bites down on her bottom lip to try and keep it in. Liam is lapping at her clit through the cloth, breathing shameless short breaths against her skin. Zayn almost whoops when she finally removes the boxer-shorts, urged by Zayn's thighs bracketing her head. 

Zayn's legs are already shaking when she pushes her underwear away with her toes, and Liam doesn't wait before latching onto her, her tongue swiping broad and wicked. Zayn almost cries with pleasure. It's relentless, Zayn really never gets used to it. She doesn't. 

By the end of it Liam's reduced Zayn to a shaking mess, melting in the sweat beading at her temples and on her forehead. Her orgasm ripples through her, sharp and white-hot, generous waves of feeling flowing through her body. 

"That was fantastic," she breathes, grazing her teeth against Liam's cheek. 

"I know," Liam says. 

Zayn laughs, and then laughs even harder at Liam's outraged squeak when Zayn flips them over, pressing Liam's back against the wooden table. "Your turn," she says, and isn't surprised to find Liam already wet when she reaches down, her fingers sliding against Liam's underwear. 

"Here you go," she says. She's always been more of a talker than Liam, who isn't all that good at dirty talk, though she does try. 

The wood probably hurts her back like it did Zayn's, leaving a red line on her skin, but if Liam _is_ like Zayn, she probably doesn't care much. 

"Hng," she says when Zayn swipes her fingers roughly a second time and then slips them in, two at once. Liam hooks her chin over Zayn's shoulder for leverage, her leg coming to curl around Zayn's hip. Her nails dig into the broad of Zayn's back. 

"Come on, babe," Zayn says, at the same time as Liam urges her to go faster, rougher. She really does use sex as – well, maybe not a weapon, more like a tool. A tool for forgetting. You can't think too hard about anything when someone's fucking the uncertainty and self-doubt out of you. Zayn knows the feeling. 

She brings Liam to her orgasm, and when it comes they're both drenched in sweat, Zayn wet again, babbling gibberish against each other's mouth, lips hovering but not catching, hair damp and stuck against their necks, itching at the base. The warmth of the orgasm spreads from Liam to Zayn, another thing they share without really sharing it.

They sprawl on the floor, backs and legs aching. Liam doesn't curl close, and Zayn doesn't ask her to, even though she wants it with more intensity than she wants most things. 

"Thanks," Liam whispers. It was probably supposed to come out grateful and warm, but instead it's hesitant, vaguely awkward. 

"Ssh," Zayn says. She draws her close, just a little closer so they're lying side by side. She tips her chin with a finger and looks her in the eye for a second. Liam's eyes drift to her tattoos. Zayn wonders if she knows, if she at least suspects. Everything about her, the stories, the memories, the fantasies. The symbols. 

She knows better than to ask, though. She kisses Liam, hot and long, lascivious with the shared heat and the laziness. Zayn could probably stay like this forever. She would bathe in the long white sun, she starts thinking, but Liam slides her mouth down to her breasts, starts kissing, nibbling, and Zayn forgets the future in favour of burying a hand in Liam's hair and pulling her even closer. _Good choice_ , she congratulates herself silently. 

*

It's not like she thought it could go on forever.

But she did. She'd gotten halfway used to the idea of it. Maybe she wasn't made for happiness, after all. Maybe this soft ache was a good thing, something to remind that she was human like everyone else, and being human has to hurt, always has to hurt to mean something. Right?

So there was the future, she was thinking: there would be two more years of university and the parade of Liam's boyfriends, whose faces would after a while melt into each other to create one beefy broad-shouldered jock with hands way too big for Liam's hips. Liam would get her heart broken over and over but never give up, because if there's something's Liam bad at it's giving up; and when her heart got broken she would bury her head in Zayn's shoulder and kiss her and Zayn wouldn't protest, would just go with it. Zayn… Zayn would live in this limbo of waiting. It didn't matter – there were other things to take care of, things that didn't require instant felicity like school and work and friends and the band. She could live like this. It wasn't ideal, but if that was all there was, Zayn would gladly take it. She would choose Liam over happiness in a heartbeat; it's just that she never thought she'd have to, is all. But she can adjust.

But nothing lasts forever, as it turns out, not even this tentative half-happiness. Louise calls her a pessimist, but she's not, it's just the way things are. It's not like she _wants_ to be miserable. (She probably does, at least on some level, but she isn't a sure it's a feeling she's willing to investigate.) 

It's fine as long as they're in the house. The flat isn't really big enough for them to ignore each other successfully, and it seems like a tacit decision that the way they act inside it has no repercussion on the way they act outside. It's easy to reach a hand out and let a nail catch on the skin of Liam's lip, see the way she melts, tries to contain it but can't. It's like a sick victory, except better – it tastes tart with the skin and sweat and secret earthiness of the inside of Liam's thighs. Zayn's not ready to give that up, for fuck's sake. She wants to dig her claws in this before it goes away. 

But Liam is – what Liam always has been. Liam is a girl who used to read the Bible before she went to sleep, and her stomach is closed with all sorts of barriers. Zayn tries to tell her that what she does with her hands doesn't belong to anybody but her, but Liam won't listen, so Zayn is reduced to just looking at her struggle with her demons, suffocating. 

_They're all ghosts_ , Zayn wants to say. _You're the only one who sees them._

She doesn't. She keeps it all to herself, like nails in the palms of her hands, and she takes what she can take before the self-hatred wastes all of Liam away. It's not even about saving, at this point. If Liam wants to be saved, she'll have to do that herself. You don't have to be a genius to know that that's the only way people ever get out of any fight. You're always fighting with yourself, in the end. 

And Zayn, well, Zayn's life has always been about waiting. Now it's not as much that as it is sitting in a corner trying not to look but inevitably getting pulled in by the quiet horror of a friend crumbling in. Zayn wishes she could just give up, stop slipping into Liam's bed at night and letting herself be thrown up against the wall and kissed like a savage when the last item in Liam's collection of boyfriends turns out to be as much of an arsehole as the others. 

But she can't. She can pretend to be nice all she wants, but Zayn's not going to give Liam up now that she has her, or at least this pathetic excuse for having – but there's also Liam. Liam can't stop. Liam's drunk on misery, and Zayn doesn't really want to watch if she stops, because it's sure going to be ugly. There's just no winner, is there? It's every war Zayn's ever watched play out on her TV screen, in her bedroom, wearing her shoes. Disaster at a domestic scale, if Zayn wanted to be dramatic. 

There are intermissions, of course. On Sundays Liam and Zayn stay home and they watch reruns of _Gilmore Girls_ in their pyjamas, nestled against each other. They kiss lazily and with hot wandering hands, and Zayn tries not to notice how easily they fit against each other, because otherwise she gets the urge to shake Liam and yell, _choose me_ , and that's not going to happen. 

The outside, though, the outside rocks like a sinking boat. The gang look at Zayn like she's taken up cocaine, all narrowed eyes and bulky scarves hiding their scrunched-up mouths, bracelets dangling sickly when they wave their wrists like they want to say something but eventually decide not to, and Zayn can pretend not to see it, but that doesn't keep their gazes from following her everywhere, burning the small of her back.

Zayn wants to turn around, to justify herself, scream, _I can't stop_ , but instead she just keeps on walking on, head bowed. She didn't used to bow her head before she started this.

*

Zayn could seriously kill for a coffee, the hot burn on her tongue and the acrid smell in her nostrils, but instead she's half-heartedly munching on salad and seriously tasteless potatoes. And god, is that a headache? She inhales through her nose, hoping that the crisp fresh air will penetrate the remote nooks of her brain and make her feel better. Just a little bit. She isn't asking for much. 

"Stop doing this," Niall says, grabbing her wrist. Her face is angled towards Zayn and it looks pleading, her eyes creased and her face sharp with the light falling on her cheek. 

Zayn pulls free, barely stomping the impulse to scratch the skin where Niall touched her. Her mouth feels sour. Maybe if she could just stop at _The Bean_ before her next lecture -

"Stop," Niall repeats, looking up at her. Her eyes are blue and worried, and she's a friend but all Zayn can see is the condescension, staining her words light grey. She looks so disgustingly healthy. Aren't they supposed to all be in the same boat? "You're hurting yourself."

"Hm," Zayn says between clenched teeth, shaking a fag down into her palm. The pack gives off a blank, cardboard-y sound. "Thanks for the advice. I'll take it into consideration."

Niall flinches back, blinking once or twice in quick succession. Zayn wants to call her out on it, say, _see how being locked out feels?_ but that would probably be opening a whole other Pandora's box. They have so many of those lying around – some of them look like regular oil jars, and when you open them the snakes crawl out. It's a dirty game. Zayn wants to think more on the metaphor, but her brain is running on empty, the wheels grinding together, damp rust. She considers leaving, but doesn't. She doesn't really know why. 

Niall looks at her for a few seconds before letting her back slump. She reaches for her bag, slinging it on her shoulder brusquely. "You know what, do what you want. It's not my problem if you want to destroy your life," she says. It's uncharacteristically mean of her. 

"Yeah, because you're so good at relationships, right?" Zayn says to her retreating back. It's like she's gotten more attractive now that she's with Josh – does that mean Zayn's getting uglier the more time she spends taking Liam's bullshit? That actually wouldn't be that surprising. 

"At least I pulled my shit together," Niall says, turning around. Zayn wonders if a snarl would have been better than the pity curling her bottom lip. 

Zayn's temples are buzzing. She can't answer anything, so she just watches Niall walk away and then the wall until the back of her eyes stops aching, and then she gets a random bloke to light her cigarette and smokes it to the filter. Her mouth tastes like she's swallowed ash when she comes home. She makes a point of kissing Liam just to see disgust screw up her face once again. 

*

It probably would be easier if it all had a tipping point, a final fight where they finally came to terms with everything, but life isn't a romance novel or a Shakespeare play, so it doesn't happen like that. No, it happens like this: their relationship slowly disintegrates, like Liam's self-doubt is a gangrene eating at it from the inside. It happens like this: Liam doesn't look at Zayn when Zayn's eating her out, tries to make the least noise possible. It happens like this: Zayn grows angry. 

The end of the year is just a mess of things going wrong very slowly, encephalogram spikes getting flatter and flatter, land crumbling under the weight of radiations. It might be arrogant to compare her personal drama to Hiroshima, but fuck it, Zayn's always been the dramatic one.

Their kitchen is spotless. It's always spotless, but today it's making Zayn jumpy, she wants to mess something up, find something to anchor herself. She's kind of afraid she'll end up drifting away with all this white and this silver gleam. She sits at the table, curls her naked feet under her thighs, sucking in breath when she feels the cold of the plastic chair against her skin. 

Liam pads to the counter. Her pyjamas make a soft noise when they brush against her legs, and Zayn thinks about reaching out, pulling on the string to make them pool at her feet. What would she look like? Underwear and her big woollen jumper, hair in disarray, sleep-coated lips. She wouldn't look like Liam Payne. Maybe that's the answer, at least for now. She would look like the Liam that only Zayn knows, not the one who's afraid of being free; the one who jumps fences and eats enough candy to be sick on Halloween, who screams obscenities in the heat of the game. 

Liam's fingers scrape the skin of her stomach, as though the desire to touch is an itch she's trying to contain. The kettle makes a metallic noise when Liam disengages the water container. 

"D'you want some?" she asks, tipping it towards Zayn. It's a silence-filler – Zayn always drinks tea with her in the morning, even though she sometimes buys coffee on her way to class if she's pulled an all-nighter to work on an essay or fuck Liam through the mattress. 

She thinks about not answering, just to let Liam drown in the silence, because she knows she can't stand it, but she doesn't. It's always been hard to be cruel to Liam, except when it hasn't. 

"Sure," she says, but Liam's already turning her back at her, filling the container. The sound of the water is making Zayn want to pee, a slow churning at the base of her stomach, unless maybe it's the stress, the needle-sharp awareness of Liam's body so close and to her and so untouchable. 

Zayn gets up, securing her hands on the sides of the chair. The plastic presses into her skin and it wakes her up more effectively than any coffee probably could've. Something is rattling in her chest. She hopes she hasn't caught a cold. 

"M'going to pee," she says. She reaches a hand to touch Liam's hip like she normally would, stroke the sliver of skin where her T-shirt rides up and her pyjama pants are too low, barely held in place on her hips by the string, where the skin is so smooth and would probably send little shooting sparks up Zayn's fingers. She doesn't. 

Liam is still turning her back at her. "Okay," she says; the device clicks again when Liam puts the whole thing together, then starts humming with steam. Zayn's stomach makes a pressing gurgling noise. 

She goes to the loo, feeling vaguely sick, wonders if it would be a good idea to vomit so early in the morning, but feelings fades as soon she's out of the bathroom, probably triggered by the abominable Toilet Duck and that atmospheric thing that's supposed to 'ooze the scent of tropical flowers' but actually just smells like some scientist tried to replicate a tulip while drunk. 

Her stomach is flip-flopping all over the place when she comes back to the kitchen. Zayn isn't sure if it's apprehension or just a really shitty day, doesn't remember a lot apart from waking up in a cold sweat from a nightmare where something terrible happened, though she isn't really sure what. She feels like her body is made of mismatched laundry and dirty water, gurgling every time she moves. God, she _is_ going to throw up. The world really does suck. 

Liam's eyes are distant and she doesn't see her at first, in deep contemplation of her mug. She looks like she could be thinking about something important, and Zayn knows better than most people that this kind of things never, _never_ end well. It adds another knot to the collection already floating under her ribs, on the left, where her heart is probably pumping but mostly feels like it wants to swim out of her chest. 

She really must look like crap, though, because as soon as Liam sees her she's out of her chair, her hands on Zayn's arms, little fluttering touches that make Zayn want to ask her to hold on once and for all or just keep away.

"Are you okay?" Liam asks, her eyebrows furrowed. 

"Just tired," Zayn says. Her skin fizzles where Liam is touching it, and she wonders how they ever managed to have sex without one of them catching fire. 

She sinks back into the chair, her bones knocking together and against the wood as she tries to arrange it so it doesn't feel so big. Liam is still standing in front of her, casting a clear, cardboard human-shaped shadow in the pale sickly sun. 

"Sit down," Zayn says to Liam. There's probably a metaphor in the way Liam's dangers are always insidious – she always seem so _caring_ , and then – but that's how wrecks work, right? Too much of a good thing and then you're throwing up sugary and chocolate-scented, the scent of saccharine sick full up your nostrils, suffocating you. 

Zayn sees in flashes, in the wrinkles around Liam's mouth and the way she holds up her mug gingerly, thinking about it too much like she always does when she's scared, that she wants to tell her something. She has a hummingbird thought for pity, not wanting to tell someone who feels like she does, oesophagus twisted with all sorts of nasty things, but half of them are probably anticipation anyway, so why not get all that out the way? Chop it right off. 

Liam sets the mug in front of Zayn's, and Zayn watches it imprint its damp circle on the metal of the table before picking it up. She brushes her fingers over the table, where the steel is still warm. This kitchen really does feel cold all the time, maybe they ought to have bought coloured cups or something. Rainbow plates. Zayn's never been all that good at interior decoration; she remembers telling Liam about helping her aunt redecorate her living-room before she left for uni and making an utter mess of it.

"So," she says. Her throat feels parched, so she takes a sip of tea. The warmth of it hits her before the taste, damp steam curling under her nostrils and around her lips, smell strong and a little bitter. "You wanted to tell me something."

It's not a question, because there's nothing Zayn's sure of if not that. Of course Liam wants to ask her a question. Zayn knows her body so well she could probably draw a three-dimensional map, complete with hinterlands and hidden seas. There's a circuit of high-speed highways running down her back, and Zayn watches them move as Liam tries to understand exactly what Zayn wants to hear.

"Yeah," Liam says. She's not surprised either, and really, Zayn doesn't need to imagine having a best friend, it's all here, in the way Liam knows Zayn can't stand Rothko and Zayn always takes a double share of French fries for Liam. Knowing each other so perfectly, in the end, just makes the whole thing more difficult. Who'd have thought? 

Liam sits at the table. Their feet brush, Liam's sock-clad toes fuzzy against the bare skin of Zayn's. On instinct, Zayn wants to get closer, nestle and cajole, but the surprise and fear are better, hard-learned through years of forced self-preservation. She curls her feet back under the chair. Liam flinches on the other side of the table, her nails raking the porcelain of the mug with a sick sound. 

She looks like she's trying to figure something out, but every book Zayn's ever read says that it's better to just let her come out with it. She tries to say that with her eyes. Rip the band-aid. It's not like she's convinced that they'll both feel better afterwards, but at least it'll be done. 

"I'm moving out," Liam says. 

Zayn wonders if she expected it. It's really the first thing that comes to her mind – did she browse past that option as she moved down her list of things Liam could say? What words did she imagine in her mouth? It's a nanosecond thought, of course, but when Zayn digs it up she finds a whole array of possible answers, _I love you, I can't do this anymore_ , a stock of clichés and one or two confessions Zayn's always yearned for but will most likely never hear. 

She looks around her, nails tugging at the cuticles in her nails. She can't even tell the two of them apart anymore, what's hers and what's Liam's amidst the trinkets and the furniture. _I suppose all things must end_ , she says in her head, to get an idea of what I might sound like out there, mashed between her teeth, but all it sounds is ugly and fake. Bullshit. 

Her fingers start shaking. She's nothing but a giant itch, from the outline of her tattoo that's burning down on her skin, another thing falsely promised to eternity, to the laughter lines in the folds of her eyelids. 

"Okay," Zayn says. The silence stretches between them, ties a marine noose around Zayn's neck and pulls, vicious. "Why?"

If she's going to suffer (God, where is her bag? She must have put it somewhere, there's a pack of cigarettes in it that she really needs right now – might soothe the burning) Liam may as well suffer too, and Zayn knows there's nothing she hates more than telling the truth unvarnished, without glossing over it and pretending to be a _good person_. God knows she isn't. 

Liam fingers fly up to the nape of her neck – the skin gives a rustling noise under her fingers, uncomfortable and dry. "I can't do this anymore," she says, not looking at Zayn. How many years has it been? Zayn wonders, and can't number them, because it's too many and they've always been together. What a hypocrite. 

(There are so many things she wants to say, but in the end the one that burns her palate is the recrimination – how can you believe God wants you to be so unhappy? She would – grab her wrist, run a finger over the streams of blood simmering there, under the thin skin where only lovers touch, and she would say, but look at yourself in a mirror, Liam. Look at yourself in a damn mirror. Is it really worth sacrificing so much to be unhappy?)

"What can't you do?" she asks instead, the question prodding at Liam and tearing her gaze from the windows, back to Zayn. Her hair is sticking to her cheeks. She's never been more beautiful, but Zayn doesn't care, for once – she's going to squeeze the last drop truth out of her if it's the last thing she does.

"You know what," Liam says. She doesn't sound angry, only tired, so tired. Her arms are hanging uselessly at her sides and her chest is sagging. Self-denial. Is this what it does to people? 

"I don't know," Zayn says. 

Anger, for her, has always been the driving force. That's why she does punk music – her anger is the harsh cry of Louise's voice as much as it is the low growl of her own bass. But she can't find it, the telltale bubbling in her stomach, her bowels tight, and she feels empty, like she might crumble if it's not there. But she can still fake it. She stands up. She wants to look like a predator, but she doubts she does. She probably only looks like what she is, a fool. In love, stupidly in love. 

She pushes Liam's mug from before her, pushes her chair back, the square cuts of the plastic pushing into the flesh of her palms. That's what she doesn't like in this kitchen – everything here is sharp and confrontational, and Zayn likes the mellowness of soft angles, when a tattoo is drawn into her side and curls there, when she swallows someone's smile from their ready lips. 

There was a time she would have let Liam go. She would have gone out and found some random girl to fuck, like she still does sometimes when she gets drunk enough, to convince herself she can still walk out of this, because feels unfair to be the only one trapped in this relationship. There was a time she would have let Liam go without asking questions, a time she would have just ducked her head and said "Okay," to the silence after the door closed after her, opened her mouth to Liam's goodbye kiss. Now she just has too much to lose. It feels unjust to have wasted ten years of her life on someone who doesn't want them.

She bends her legs under the table and shoves her hands under her thighs, leans back on her palms, the bones twisting and cracking a little. It feels good. Liam is leaning forward, too close for comfort. Zayn grabs a fistful of hair at the back of her neck, twists them with her fingers, tries to count the strands, as though she were going to make a braid. 

"I don't know," she says. "This?" she says as she leans in and brushes her lips against the corner of Liam's, and of course Liam can't help but press forward, blindly, wanting. Is it so hard to give in? Is it so easy to give up when she's outside and she's thinking of them in here, happy? "This is what you can't do?"

Liam doesn't say anything. Her nostrils flare a little when she inhales; Zayn wonders if she's breathing her in or only trying to reason herself. She can't decide, but it stays at the back of her mind as Liam slides closer, like a joint failing repetitively, a soft _fizz fizz fizz_ at the back of her skull. They're nose to nose, now – Liam's eyes are closed and you could call that trust, the way she shows the thin skin of her eyelids, so thin only people who are this close can see, can touch – but trust has never been an issue between them. It's everything else. 

They're nose to nose, forehead to forehead. Zayn could probably kiss her again, tea and hot water and gleaming kitchen and the cold tiles under them, palm kneading the plastic of the table, but she doesn't. She catches Liam's lip between her own, and then she lets Liam push her away. _I can pretend_ , she remembers saying at the beginning, and it occurs maybe it really was all her fault, a punishment for that first lie. Maybe she just should've said it from the start (again the _fizz_ buzzing softly against the walls of her brain, a grating, elastic rebound). Love me. It's not even that hard to say, except for how it really, really is. 

"Yes," Liam says. She goes to push Zayn away for real, but for some reason she seems surprised when instead her hands only meet the fabric of Zayn's tank top and the small flare of her breasts. Maybe she's just realizing that Zayn's a human being too; that of the two of them Liam isn't the only one made of flesh and bones and porcelain. "I can't," she says – her fingers linger, but then she realises and bites her lip and her eyes tear away, her fingers too. They're gone, tucked in the inside of her sleeves, biting the soft cotton, gnawing like her nails on the skin of Zayn's back when she doesn't want to come, _wait, please, more_. "I'm sorry," she adds belatedly. Her pupils are wide and black, she's not sorry. She's a lot of things, guilty, afraid, aroused, but she's not sorry. 

It's okay, though. That Zayn can understand – she was never good at being sorry either. 

"I'm sorry, I just," Liam says. 

It's a human world where things need to be said, Zayn realises that, but sometimes she wishes people would just shut up. She grew up alone after all, with comics and the forest: there was time to make up a thousand dreams, as vivid as memories, but after that night her mum told her that Santa Claus wasn't real she kept them safely hidden in her pockets. Here she is again, though. It's the same feeling Zayn remembers. Like switching off all the stars at once.

"I can't do this," Liam says. She takes her head in her hands. Here are her nails again, biting small indents in the skin of her skull, beneath the thick brown hair, where no one can see. She's good at that, isn't she? Hurting where people can't see. Zayn pities her like a child you want to hold so hard it makes your legs convulse with cramps, ants running up and down your bloodstream. "I need to think a little, okay?" she says, pleading, and raises her eyes to Zayn like she's asking a favour. 

Zayn nods, even though she knows better. If Liam leaves it won't be to think a little, it'll be to think a lot and most of all not to come back. She's held to her beliefs for so long and so blindly, so strongly, being away won't do anything but separate them. Liam may not know it for sure, but she has to at least suspect it. Liam doesn't care. She doesn't care, or else she wouldn't be there, in this chair, telling Zayn she's leaving and crying, her nose red and looking bloody pathetic. 

"You look like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer with your nose," Zayn says dazedly. Where did her anger go? If only she could've clung to it, tried to hit Liam, spit in her face, kissed her hard enough to make her bleed – but now she's just drained of light, drained of everything except this immense resignation. If you have to go. She feels like a sailor's wife, like a costumed Disney park worker who has to watch the waves of children recede and ebb every night and exhale a weary sigh, thinking _tomorrow_. Zayn isn't thinking about tomorrow. She'd rather not. 

Liam lets out a small, strangled laugh. The worst of the crisis has passed. It wasn't a real fight, only a little tsunami, and Zayn is just the devastated shore, her body littered with fallen down houses and bits of lives floating away. A lamp. A diary. A frying pan. A child's toy. 

"I'm so sorry," she says again. She leans her damp forehead against Zayn's thigh, sniffling wetly against the fabric. Zayn feels too tired and worn-out to even be disgusted. Nothing matters. Her thigh is damp with tears and snot. Liam is crying. Why is she crying? 

"I'm sorry," she repeats. Her arms are still hanging near the sides of her, and she's always been bad at being sad but now she just looks like a disembodied puppet. Even her hair looks lifeless, and stringy and lacklustre. "Thanks for letting me go," she says, little and almost inaudible with her cheek mashed into Zayn's thigh when Zayn leans in to wrap her arms around her, palms spanned over her hair and forearms closing the warmth in, elbows and chins pressed together. 

_I'm not letting you_ , Zayn thinks, but doesn't say, of course, because at this point their history is a book filled almost entirely with gaps, things unsaid and words unuttered. _You're going on your own._

*

Because it's life it doesn't happen all at once, of course – it's like wanting to shut the door but having to come back and pick up something you dropped over and over again, and they're eating breakfast together for a week, then two, after that conversation, Liam coming back every night and sleeping in the tight clasp of Zayn's embrace as her things slowly disappear from the shelves. The discussion isn't closed – they talk about it again countless times, who's going to take the plates Zayn's mother bought them last Christmas, Zayn's _History of Punk_ CDs that she bought when she was still sleeping with Louise but that Liam grew to love as she spent countless afternoons exposed to it when they did their homework together, sprawled belly-down on the carpet in the living-room. 

Zayn is reduced to watching Liam dim down, thin before her eyes. She loses her countenance with every new blouse she can't find, every pair of shoes that ins't there in front of the door when Liam leaves for her ten a.m. class on Monday. It's slow. It's insidious. And then, one day – Zayn is there, in the rocking chair, drawing something that actually isn't about Liam but for class, for once, and thinking about the outline of her new tattoo and when she'll have enough money to actually get it – one day, Liam pipes up. 

"It's Wednesday." 

Zayn hums – it is, yeah – but then her head snaps up, sinews going taut somewhere too deep in her throat and probably connected to her heart, purely in a medical way of course. It's _Wednesday_ , she thinks dazedly, and when she looks at Liam it's exactly what her eyes are saying. The keys are dangling from her fingers, metal teeth biting into the lines of her palm when she closes her fingers over it. Does that mean destiny's screwed? 

"Jason will be here in twenty to help me take the last things," Liam says. Her eyes are damp, apologetic enough that Zayn considers getting angry one last time, getting up, arms akimbo, and telling her that there was a time to be sorry and it isn't now. Or she could – couldn't she ask her to stay, still? No, it's probably too late. It is. It's too late, it's absurdly too late. 

But she's too tired to be sorry and too mellow and she feels too kind, too stripped down. There are a thousand reasons she won't shake her fist at Liam when she leaves, only one of them being that they met where they were kids and Zayn asked her to go to the river with her and Liam said yes. Zayn can pretend all she wants, Liam is one of the kindest people she's ever met. She might be older now, stained with stupidity and selfishness and doubt, but she's still who she was that day, when she said she didn't have a swimsuit but agreed to follow nonetheless. And Zayn's still that kid, too. That kid that smiled and said she didn't care. Unconditional love, that's one way to put it. 

"I'm going," Liam says, unnecessarily. She looks sad.

It's not like it's the last time they're going to see each other, Zayn knows that, even though it feels like it, final. Not closure, simply terminal, the final stage. It just didn't work out, it's what she'll say in a couple of years when she stumbles on an old friend at Target in a few years and they ask her what happened to 'that pretty sporty girl' – it didn't work out. Wasn't meant to be. Something else from the array of clichés she could use. At least she'll have a choice – there's nothing human language is better at than describing separation. 

"I know," Zayn says. 

She doesn't know if she beckons her closer or if Liam comes of her own free will – all she knows is that they both get smaller and smaller as they get closer, going through sixteen and bursting and uncertain, thirteen with braces and the first blossoms of romantic love, twelve with the new shining yellow bike and the sun glossing over it, until they're there. Ten. Zayn is the daredevil. Liam is the little girl in blue. 

Zayn's hands are still rough from having jumped over the fence – she's lucky she didn't catch splinters, the wood hasn't been sanded for years, the old tenants just didn't care, even though the town council tried to talk to them. Maybe that's why they left. The council booted them out because of the possible splinters. (The Paynes will fix the fence within two weeks of their arrival. One morning Zayn will wake up and here it'll be, shining with the new coat of varnish, all pretty and fairytale-like. There'll even be a girl smiling at her from the window. Zayn, the raven-haired kid from over the street, will hide under her own fence, breathe in the calm she needs to be bold, pop out again, and smile back.)

"Liam," she says. 

The little girl in blue has tears hanging from her eyelashes like little crystals. Zayn thinks that her palm is moist, and it's only then that she looks between them, at their linked hands. Their fingers, small and intertwined, look like they belong together. 

The daredevil says something garbled and inconsequential that makes the little girl in blue puff out a humid laugh. 

"Zayn," she answers. 

She's just moving away, not even far, not even a town over – sure, there won't be trips to the forest every afternoon, and maybe Zayn won't be able to show her all her secret places, but it'll be all right. 

(The truth, Zayn now knows with twenty years of certainty, is that she'll keep one of the secret places to herself, only one, and she'll forget to mention it until it's a secret that can only be revealed, and not shared. It'll be the beginning of the end, of course – they'll be friends but not as tight, there'll be the secret between them, crackling like an iced lake, and they'll fall into its trap. Friendship suffocated. Just like that.)

She's ten. They'll be okay. 

They hug like children, incapable of keeping still long enough to make it look clean and meaningful to the outside, indifferent onlooker. But it hurts anyway; everything is forever for them. That too – along with God and Santa Claus – Zayn think it was cruel to take from her, from them. 

The daredevil's little spindly hands roam Liam's back, over her dress.

"You'll be fine," she says to her. Liam is still sobbing, now almost hysterically. Their mothers could come out of the house any minute and inquire as to what's going on (two children hugging in the middle of the street, you've never seen that before, surely there's a better place for displays of affection than the sun-warmed asphalt). "You'll be okay."

Of course she'll be okay. She's moving to the next town, not another continent. They'll still be able to run together some afternoons, get ice-cream for the cart and mock Marina and her friends as cruelly as they'd mocked Zayn, with this amazing childish obliviousness all children possess at one time or another. 

"Stop crying," the daredevil says. She's getting tired, and damp. She's not nineteen yet – at nineteen she'll tell Liam to stop for other reasons, because she suspects that all it'd take to stop the little girl in blue from leaving would be asking her, and she hates her for the temptation. It would be so easy, and Zayn isn't that strong.

(At nineteen, the little girl in blue will be dressed in beige but still won't fade in the background. She'll still have done all her homework and next week's, too, and she'll be bowled over in the daredevil's arms but will not sob, will not crumble.)

The little girl in blue pulls away, cheeks rosy with the exhaustion of crying. She looks all puffed up like a cloud, with her swollen lips and swollen eyes, beaten up by the infantile sadness. Liam Payne vs Sadness, 0-1. Liam Payne down! And she doesn't get up, get up, get up Liam Payne, you can do it! 1, 2, 3, 10, and it's a victory for sadness! Clapping. 

"I'll miss you," she says. The daredevil shrugs, her necklace of bones clanging and clinking. _Don't be silly_ , she seems to be saying. _You won't have the time to miss me. I'll be back before that._

"I'm going now," the little girl in blue says with long, sad eyes, pulling her hand away. The daredevil blushes a little when she realises she'd been holding it, but it's a rosy, exhausted blush, more like a distant hue. 

"Okay," she says. She feels a little ridiculous – except you don't, you don't feel ridiculous at ten, do you? Zayn's fantasy is caving in on itself. 

(The keys are on the table, between them. There are two mugs there, too, but the one the little girl in blue has been drinking isn't hers – hers is probably somewhere in the boxes, stuffed between an oversized pillow and one of her ridiculous plaid shirts.)

Liam turns the key in her hand. The dents push into her flesh, just a little, make tiny marks, like mouse teeth. It's almost cute. 

The daredevil – if she were still ten – if she still knew how to – ten years of this – would probably run to the door, _do_ something. Move. That's what she's made for – she's always been the one that climbs fences, beckoning the little girl in blue up from where she's squatting in a cherry tree, reaching out a hand to help her down. She's always been the adventurous one. 

She should probably be the one leaving. It would make sense, more than this, anyway. 

"Okay," she repeats, dully, even as the little girl in blue takes a step forward. The asphalt will probably stick to her shoes – It melts when it's summer, especially here. The town becomes a giant Dali painting. 

"I love you," the little girl in blue says, ducking her head, and the daredevil, who was so happy to make a friend when she climbed over the fence that first day, has never hated friendship more. 

"Me too," the daredevil wants to – could have – maybe wouldn't have said, but the little girl in blue takes her hand. Her thumb smoothes soft circles on the back of her hand. 

She kisses the daredevil. Her lips taste like breathmint and goodbye tears. When she closes her eyes, her eyelashes sweep over the daredevil's cheek. It tickles.

The daredevil slides a hand down her back, to keep her close – or she would've, if she weren't ten and in the middle of the street and if that hadn't been a goodbye kiss. She would've twined three fingers in the hair at the nape of Liam's neck, searching for the roots to pull her closer. She would've had slotted their hips together, too close for comfort. 

"C'mon," the little girl in blue breathes against the daredevil's lips. "Time to go."

She's the one leaving, all of a sudden – she isn't moving far, but she's taking the keys all the same, smiling a poor smile and shutting the door softly behind herself. 

Zayn stands in the living-room. _Good riddance,_ she tries to think. She grinds her teeth instead. Whatever; she has it on good authority that this kind of sadness never lasts. 

She can make herself a cup of tea. That's a good start. Jason will come and pick up Liam's things. Zayn can call Louise after that; they'll figure out something, anything. Yeah. Good plan. And if she cries a little in between, well. Nobody's perfect.

*

There's more crying on Louise and Harry's couch, curled into a ball as though the piercing pain in her stomach will dissolve if she folds her body hard enough. It doesn't, of course, and all of her friends stream into the room and try and comfort her, bribing her with various goods, pastries and homemade songs and a collection of little bracelets. Nick offers to go with her when she gets to the 'get staggeringly drunk' part of her mourning process, and Zayn smiles blurrily through the tears. He's so bad at feelings, she's surprised he even suggested it. Aiden and Matt probably aren't far behind, and Zayn wants to give him advice on that because there's no way it'll end well, but she figures she isn't really in the best place to give advice right now. Besides, Nick probably decided to do it precisely because it was a bad idea. 

She still goes to rehearsals. Nothing feels better than hearing her necklaces clink when she bobs her head and sends them flying, her bass throbbing against her stomach. It's like an immense vibration that keeps her from thinking, and really, it's what Zayn needs – the low-pitched groan of the instrument to keep everything of her head. 

The worst of it is probably that at the same time that there was always something wrong between them (the tension, the lies, the longing) and always something right (the rest), and because they're human, Liam maybe even more than the rest of them, they decided to keep it going. It'll heal, they said. It'll heal, it will. 

It didn't. But they just didn't cave in, either, it made no sense for them to part, besides the obvious that is. It was just a random morning and Liam had a new boyfriend and the weight of it all stuck Zayn to the ground. Liam said, "I'm living," and Zayn wasn't in any shape to keep her, so she didn't. Is it as simple as that? It is. 

It's not just because Liam doesn't want to be who she is, either. Zayn knows they could have worked past that; maybe it really is that they aren't made for each other, that Zayn is a little too messed-up and Liam a little too rectangular. It's hard to believe, of course, after all these years Zayn spent looking at her and thinking 'this is the one' with no shame, no itch from the cheesiness of the statement, just this sort of enormous, wooden certainty. 

But maybe that's what it is, in the end. The door needs to be opened and they can just spill out, pick themselves up and move on. They're bad at moving on, the lot of them, that's all – Zayn can't look at the others without thinking that they'd break if parted, and it's not just a love thing, it's a they thing, an us thing. They're bad at moving on, and it made Zayn think – hope – that maybe theirs was the good kind of delusional, the kind that doesn't end up breaking everyone apart. Look at her now. 

She still watches Liam from afar. She always feels like she's walking in her footsteps, and sometimes she closes her eyes so she can try and feel that she's been here before, the dry scent of her soap-washed skin hanging still in the air, the molecules of her. It's stupid and superstitious, and it certainly doesn't help on the moving on front, but Zayn can't help it. She likes to think that Liam checks up on her, too; it's a small relief.

She's proven wrong two months later, when Liam starts dating a girl. 

Zayn is sure she's nice and everything – she's seen her a few times on campus, her name is Jessica and she's small and mousy and funny and everything Liam would like – but for Zayn it's like a punch to the stomach. There was always this wall before, this mantra Zayn used to repeat to herself when she thought about Liam and love too hard – _she's straight, she's straight, she's straight_. It didn't matter how many times they slept together, how many times Zayn kissed Liam's knuckles and licked her out, slowly, almost tenderly. She was straight. 

And now – Zayn's not really sure she can take what this means. It's too blatant, everything Liam hasn't told her because she's too sweet, that Zayn wouldn't admit to herself. She's just not good enough. It makes sense: Zayn's a fuck-up, a _punk_ with her short hair and tattoos and pierced skin. She's never kept a girlfriend for more than three months, and she was in love with her best friend for half her life. It makes sense. It just – it just hurts, is all. 

After a while of staring as discreetly as she can Zayn deflates and finally crosses Liam off her calendar of things she'll never get around to do, like coming out to her grandfather or be the youngest painter to ever exhibit at the Tate modern. She tosses Liam in her box of hopeless dreams, another clear-sounding ricochet getting lost in the water, and somehow it hurts less than the eventual break-up probably would have. Zayn never said she wasn't a coward, either. She is, god knows. 

The rest happens in increments. First there's the spring and Liam moving entirely out of their flat and in with Jason, then Jessica moving in with her, Zayn choosing a new model for her drawing project, the both of them avoiding each other in the corridors. Then Liam stops coming to their gigs, and she was always more Zayn's friend than the others', so she just – disappears. Who did they think they were kidding, anyway? Life's no different from high school, and Liam always belonged with the popular girls, that's just how it worked. 

She looks radiant now, when she walks hand in hand with her girlfriend and smiles at her and kisses her lightly on the lips. Zayn remembers Liam's days of darkness, of hating who she was, and the only thing she can do to keep the regret from flooding her chest and drowning her is look away, so she does. 

Maybe that's when she gives up completely. She can't say she hadn't been holding on, that despite all the deceptions there was still a part of her that was sitting cross-legged on the floor of their flat, waiting to hear the familiar click of Liam's key in the door, the small metallic thud of her toy Eiffel tower against the formica of the door. She had all kinds of scenarios she still called dreams, but after a while of seeing Jessica and Liam together, tight and happy and more well-matched than Zayn and Liam would ever have been, she lets them go. 

It's like letting the stone fall in the river instead of trying to make it skip. The sound is hollow, final; it rings like disappointment and resignation. A few ripples break the clear surface of the water, then nothing. 

*

The rest of the year wastes away. There are exams, band practices, mindless parties and watching Liam and Jessica be as sickeningly cute as Liam is with anyone she dates. Louise and Harry berate her for being stupid, Aimée goes with her to get her new tattoo done, Nick, Matt and Aiden break up for a short while ("We've not broken up," Nick slobbers into his tenth shot of tequila. "We were never together. It wasn't a thing." Zayn just pats his shoulder) that feels like hell because the three of them are depressingly sad which, in turn, makes the rest of the group just as unhappy. 

Eventually they patch up and there's a formal ban from Aiden and Matt's flat for a whole three days, during which they all try very hard not to picture what's happening in there. Nick's position at Radio 1 gets turned into a permanent one in May and he decides to organise a big party for all of them with his shiny new pay-check. It's decided that it will do as their end-of-the-school-year party. The big send-off.

It's only another summer, and they'll see each other again, but it's another closing-in, too: the oldest members of their gang are already slipping away with soft apologetic smiles barely concealing the thrumming, nervous impatience to begin their _real lives_. It deserves a party, something to commit to memory: even if it's only that, Zayn is selfishly glad that she'll exist in her friends' mind in a mixture of booze and laughter, that last glittery night before diving headfirst into the unknown, jobs and responsibilities and maybe even _kids_ , who knows – though Zayn shudders to think of Nick or Aimée with a kid.

Only three of them are really leaving, but it feels like teeth marks in the fabric of their friendship; Zayn can't be the only one who's afraid that from then on it might cause it to tear, hanging threads slowly unravelled by time and lack of care. Or maybe she is. Maybe she shouldn't worry so much. Caroline, Aimée and Nick have more to worry about, after all – they'll be the ones in the lion's den while she's left here, moping about her broken heart until she doesn't. 

They don't invite Liam to the party. Zayn doesn't know if it's because of what happened between the two of them, because they just didn't think of it or because Liam was always, in the end, Zayn's. She doesn't seem vexed, anyway, and Zayn can understand that – she probably would've felt out of place with them, because she doesn't know how to let go like them. She looks happy enough with Jessica. 

The party is the usual mix of people Zayn knows like the back of her hand and others she doesn't even remember the names of. Everything becomes familiar after a couple of piña coladas, though (with another added detestably girly bubblegum pink drink to boot). Zayn dances with strangers with long hair and khôl-lined eyes, raises her arms and dances to Scratch Massive until sweat is dripping down her collarbones and she just can't bring herself to give a shit. 

The party dwindles down eventually, until it's just a dozen of them sitting cross-legged around an empty bottle of booze and pretending to play Spin The Bottle just to snog each other. Zayn doesn't mind it, in fact she plays along with the required gusto – she likes kissing, and who knew Nick was such a good kisser, really? She feels like she can almost understand Aiden and Matt now. Of course it's all just a cop-out to hide how petrified they are, to avoid taking care of their crumbling relationships, but it's good all the same. 

Aimée gets a couple of joints out her pocket (Andrej, one of her models friends, gave them to her in exchange for a pair of hideous purple pumps, or so she says – she does tend towards being dramatic) and passes them around. Soon they're clouded in thick smoke and religiously trying not to pay attention to the words they let slip out of their smoke-slack lips. Everybody knows how dangerous these drunken confessions are. 

"We look like a parody of the Breakfast Club," Aimée says from when she's sprawled over Harry's lap, a bottle of root beer dangling dangerously between her fingers. 

Harry wheezes a laugh. "We really do."

Zayn thinks, idly, that they look a parody of all the films ever made, the Italians with their big fountains and their wide-eyed divas, the French with their foul-mouthed _garçons manqués_ , the Chinese with their silent, cruel _femme fatales_ , the Americans with their trampling music... there's even a bit of dead poets in them, if you look closely. Zayn isn't sure if it's something to be proud of, but it sure feels like it. 

Caroline is the first to say it. Maybe it's because she's the oldest, maybe because she's the most fearless. 

"I'm afraid," she says, like it's nothing, a trip to the dentist, instead of the whole of her wide-open future. 

Zayn loves her for a second, fiercely and burningly. It takes courage to say something like that, especially in a group that doesn't want to hear it. 

Ian crawls towards her and takes her head in his hands, pushing smoke out of his mouth and into hers. "It's gonna be okay, Caz," he says, cajoling. 

"Sure," Caroline agrees, the same way she would say _you have no bloody idea_ , but gentle, almost reassuring. 

Niall takes a deep breath. Zayn watches as Josh's arms tighten around her stomach and his knees push against her ribs, as if he's afraid she's going to evaporate. Aimée buries her head in Nick's lap, closing her eyes briefly. Zayn wants to say that she'll still be there, a lighthouse they can come back to every time they get homesick, but the words get stuck in her throat. 

She clears her throat. Maybe it's the good moment to tell them. Well – it'll never be the good moment, but it'll probably be less terrifying if it's now. "I've been offered an exhibition."

They all turn to her, smiling and cheering. Zayn tries to fix the memory of their warmth down for opening night when she'll be doubtful and frozen to the bone. "How did that happen?" Matt asks. 

Zayn shrugs. "We did a class exhibit a few weeks ago... there was this guy my teacher talked to about me, the one I told you about? He has a small gallery in East London. So yeah. It's not a lot, but still, it's -"

"It's awesome," Harry says, leaning in to kiss Zayn's mouth gently, enthusiastic arms cradling her shoulders. Louise smiles at Zayn from behind her, as if to say, _I'm proud of you_.

After that it all unfolds, slowly but surely. The alcohol helps, of course, but they all had vague ideas of what was going to happen – Nick got that job at Radio 1, Caroline's leaving to travel around Africa for a year, Aimée's snagged a position as a trainee in a music magazine in Tokyo. Zayn can't help but think of them like a supernova, a big, exploding sun scattering all over the universe. It hurts more than she thought it would.

They all congratulate each other and give them uninformed advice, which mostly includes wild guesses about which animals actually populate the savannah; they kiss and hug until their ribs are bruised and their cheeks sore, bent on forgetting that affection isn't something you can soak up and keep for later, when you're feeling homesick. 

When it gets too emotional Harry puts Arctic Monkeys on and they laugh drunkenly at each other, twirling from one set of arms to another until their vision is blurry and their head buzzing with sound. It's the best way to live, Zayn thinks, and as it echoes around her skull – _living, living, living_ – she can't keep from thinking about Liam, how she'd never understand this, fears it because it means letting loose and stopping trying to understand. 

Zayn can't remember the name of half the girls she kisses that night, and the one she takes home doesn't look like anyone she's ever known or loved. It's a nice change, all in all, and Zayn feels like a shooting star. She's strong, she won't do too badly in this world, she'll pull through. She has to. And her friends still here, aren't they? They're still dancing around her and loving badly, painting clawed scars on each other's cheeks and necks with kittenish hands, they're familiar. All she knows. 

The girl is a redhead and Zayn dances with her like you dance when you've got nothing to worry about, no drink waiting at the bar and no pepper spray in your bag. It's a heavy kind of drunkenness, heady with a of damp pine cone smell under the thick sweat. 

She takes her by the hand and fondles her on the way to the bathroom, ignoring the prim soldier fiancée types in the bathroom line that sneer at them and cry to obscenity. Her breasts are round and smooth, nipples going perky under Zayn's hands, and for once Zayn doesn't even compare her to Liam. This – this is all for her. She may not be leaving with a bang, but she's leaving with a streak of shine-in-the-dark glitter mixed with come that she smeared on an unnamed hook-up's forehead. That's her legacy. You're punk or you aren't, right?

And she laughs, full throated and vulgar, when the girl licks her out until she screams, way over the edge of overstimulation. She crouches next to her, skirt still hitched on her thighs and cool air sliding almost painfully over the exposed reddened skin – grabs her neck and twists it to kiss her, mouth slack with smoke and stale orgasmic bliss. The girl kisses back. There's always a kind of kinship in those things, a feeling that they're part of the same race that doesn't know sorrow and only understands pain when they're in the middle of the storm. 

The morning after glares, too bright, not only because of Zayn's hangover but because it feels like the end of something is getting closer. But she's not going to be sad about her friends leaving before they're even gone and besides, she's the one always going on about carpe diem, isn't she? So she takes her own advice, for once; she lets Caroline take her hand and make her twirl and tell her bad jokes, stories about who slept with who that are probably only half-untrue. She accompanies Nick to his beat-up Honda and helps him cram the last boxes in the boot with Aimée, and they send him off with either a peace sign, a two-fingered military salute or a solitary finger depending on their respective level of drunkenness. 

"It's not leaving," Aimée says after the car disappears in the swarm, her orange hair even more vibrant through Zayn's involuntary tears. "C'mon, babe, there's always the concert on Saturday, yeah?"

It's like they're saying goodbye and never really putting an end to it – like their farewell party goes on not only well into the night but gnaws into next week because they don't want to let go. Zayn can't blame any of them and she can't blame herself – she's pretty sure she's going to take the first plane she watches fly out of the city with one of her friends in it like a punch to the stomach.

"It's okay," Caroline says, sliding an arm around Zayn's neck and landing off-centre when she tries to kiss – her ear? She presses closer, pushing them into an awkward six-armed embrace. "We're good."

There's a bit of sniffling, a big breath taken in, and – they laugh. 

"You big saps," Louise says, jogging up to them. "You know the first thing he's gonna do when he get to this shitty flat is find someone to have sex with against every wall, right? Nothing to get emotional about."

Zayn breathes out a watery laugh. "You're disgusting," she says, trying to cuff her head, but Louise ducks her arm and it devolves into more ridiculous running around. Aiden almost breaks her back laughing, and Zayn glares at her with as much might as she can muster, which isn't a lot. 

You know what? They're fine. Endings are a good thing, too.

*

She'll have to find a new roommate. It hasn't been long enough with only her in the flat to get her into real financial trouble, but she'll definitely need someone next year. It's a strange thought, having someone live with her that won't be Louise or Liam, someone entirely new. Zayn hasn't bothered trying to make friends for years – the ones she has she's fallen over, or they've been one-night friends, beer buddies you discuss music with for the span of a few hours and then leave without regret, their face already fading to a blur in your brain. 

This'll be different. It'll be someone sitting on the couch when she comes home after classes; someone with a mug and a toothbrush and a bed that isn't deserted half the time; someone who hangs out in the kitchen in her pyjamas who Zayn won't be allowed to wrap her arms around and kiss. Though she wasn't exactly allowed before either, was she? She shakes her head, suddenly a little bitter. Maybe she should change flats, get something for her alone; maybe she needs a little time to herself. 

She's thinking about it, trying to figure out if it's too late to try to and get something at a reasonable price, when she hears a knock on the door. She sighs, threads her fingers through her hair – she wasn't exactly expecting company, but then again it's probably Louise, it's not like she needs to get dressed or anything. She looks down at her jogging bottoms and distended grey t-shirt and after a minute, shrugs. It's the summer, anyway. Nobody cares anymore. 

It's funny, she tells herself mindlessly when her breath seizes at the sight of Liam, how things can change so very fast. The thing with Liam was that it was always so _easy_ before it became so hard; it seemed like such a natural thing, everyone except Liam could see that. Now... not so much. Zayn suddenly feels very underdressed, especially with Liam standing there looking as prim and perfect as ever. She berates herself; Liam's seen her look way worse – hell, she's seen her naked a hundred times. It doesn't matter. 

"Hey," she croaks, immediately dissatisfied with the way her voice wavers. It doesn't exactly project the _I've moved on_ Zayn was hoping for. "Come in."

Liam hesitates for a second, rocking on the ball of her feet. "Thanks." Her tone is careful.

She steps inside; her eyes roam over the room, and Zayn knows instantly that she's cataloguing the chances, all the reminders of her presence there Zayn left or threw away. It makes Zayn angrier that it ought to. It feels like an invasion of privacy, like Liam was flipping through the pages of Zayn's diary, underlining the parts where Zayn misses her so much she can't breathe. Why does she have to do that? She was the one who left. She has no right to judge, no say in how Zayn copes.

"I just wanted to see you before leaving for the summer." Liam looks like she's not sure it was such a good idea after all. "I wasn't sure you'd be going back home."

 _Home_ – is there nothing that belongs only to Zayn, that she could return to without being afraid of crossing Liam in the street and having to awkwardly wave hello to her? There's no way to forget her: Zayn's whole childhood is full of pictures of their two heads bent together, smiling, their shenanigans and their pyjama parties; when you take her out Zayn's life becomes a wonky trail of holes, woefully incomplete. 

"Yeah," Zayn says noncommittally.

They stand there for a few minutes, the awkward silence of people who used to be intimate, even though with them it wasn't as much intimacy as blind touching, the darkness thick enough not to imbalance Liam's careful self-denial. She doesn't need that anymore, though, does she? 

Zayn's mouth feels like it's made of cotton; she barely registers when she speaks, "Won't Jessica mind you being here?"

Surprise flashes over Liam's face. They have the same friends, for god's sake, and they used to be together 24/7 – did she really think Zayn wouldn't notice? Then again, she always did have this absurd belief that the different parts of her life were somehow completely impermeable, protected from each other. 

"No," she says after a moment. "She's not like that." There's a beat, and then, soft: "I'm sorry about that, Zayn. I should've -"

"It's fine. You don't owe me anything."

"I do," Liam insists – but she doesn't say anything else, doesn't say what, exactly, or why.

"Do you want to sit down?" Zayn asks when the awkward silence stretches, suddenly remembering her duties as a host. 

As soon as they sit down in the kitchen Zayn regrets suggesting it. Now she remembers that day Liam decided to move out, and in such precise detail – the way her feet were crossed, the crease of her pants at her hips, her face, crumpled like a cheap tissue, like she was the one hurting – no, that's unfair. She resists the urge to shake her hands. She hasn't had a cigarette in far too long. She always decides to quit and ends up giving up after a few weeks; all it gets her is nervousness and facial ticks, but she never learns.

"I came out to my parents," Liam blurts out. 

The water is warming up in the kettle. It's hot outside, and the A/C is working noisily, a loud buzz that's giving Zayn the beginning of a headache. Liam came out to her parents. Zayn feels numb; the parts of her body aren't connected anymore, her legs, her forehead, her jaw. 

"Great," she says when she feels that opening her mouth will result in more than incomprehensible muffled sounds. "That's great, Liam."

She mimics her own words in her head, meanly. _That's great, Liam_. What does she sound like? It's great, yes, but she's selfish – why couldn't Liam figure that out with her? She looks so liberated now, so happy. Was Zayn just – hindering her, in some subtle way she doesn't comprehend? Why? Why couldn't she be part of this? She blinks back tears. Don't be stupid, Zayn. 

When she looks up, Liam is worrying her bottom lip. "I just want you to know… it wasn't easy. A lot of it was you, you know – you're the one who made me realise…" She lets her sentence trail; Zayn wishes she would come out and say it. What did she make her realise?

But that's what she really wants to say: so what was I, then? A stepping stone? A ten-year fucking stepping stone for your self-revelation? A plot device in your story? That's what I wasted a decade of my life on?

"I'm happy I could help." it comes out curter than she intended, and Liam's face falls, but Zayn doesn't have the heart, or the will, to apologise. Let her feel guilty, for once.

"I didn't mean it like that, you know -"

There's a right and a wrong answer to this: the right one is, _I do_ with a hand on Liam's forearm, a parting word and a _I'm happy for you, I really am_ that will inevitably sound strained but still like a blessing; and the wrong one is, _No, I don't know, I'm confused and angry and why wouldn't you do this with me?_

Zayn is an angry person.

"I do," she says. The words are thick in her mouth, impossible to swallow. She forces a smile. "I really am happy for you, Liam. I'm sure you and Jessica are great together. And whatever you are, whatever you want to be, you can talk to me about it. I'm sure it can't have been easy coming out to your parents."

Did she ever talk like that before? Probably not, judging by the way Liam's face lights up, and a pang of guilt tears through Zayn's stomach. Lying makes life so much easier for everyone; that's why Liam likes it so much, because it means less violence, less conflict. It's not like Zayn was ever going to convince her by shaking her shoulders and telling her, _you're wrong, you need conflict, that's how life work_ s. Besides, maybe _she_ was the one who was wrong. Liam seems to be living just fine without conflict after all.

"It wasn't," Liam says, but she's smiling. "I'm glad." She is, isn't she? Her eyes are shining.

I can only make her happy by letting her go, Zayn thinks once again, and she has to turn around and pretend to be busy with the kettle to hide the way she gets breathless and red-eyed at that. God, when did she turn into such a girl? 

She waits until her hands stop shaking to pour the water in the mugs. The last thing she needs today is third-degree burns.

"Here," she puts the mug down in front of Liam and pushes the honey towards her absently. She flinches when she realises, but Liam doesn't see, blowing on her tea. 

That's the thing that stings, in the end – that they've known each other for so long and all that's left of it is shreds, a pitiful mound of torn-up memories. It seems so easy for Liam to dismiss it, pretend like it's not ten years of their lives they spent together. Zayn feels like she has the right to mourn; if she can't have what she wants, then she'll take the long afternoons looking at nothing, the mending and the grief. But Liam makes it seem so futile; _I've already moved on_ , her bright, open face seems to say – _why won't you?_

Zayn can't hold back the relief when Liam finally gulps down her last swallow of tea and announces, "I have to go"; Liam must see it, because she frowns.

"Okay," Zayn says. "It was nice talking to you."

Liam nods. "I just don't want things between us to be awkward," she says, her damn eyes so fucking earnest, "you're my friend, Zayn. I love you."

It cuts deeper than Zayn had anticipated: all the way to the bone, and the blood gurgles messily around it, the infected wound only a rusty knife would make; words Liam wouldn't say when it was about real love but will throw now like they require no effort at all, no heartbreak. Zayn searches her face for a sign of cruelty. There isn't one. The pain never comes from her side, and for a second Zayn resents her for that too, fiercely, burningly – why can't she hate her? Why can't Liam be ugly and angry, like she used to be? How is it that the only memories she has of that time she was so close to having what she wanted are uneasy and fraught with fighting, Liam's face deformed with unnatural rage?

She clears her throat. It doesn't make the words easier. "I love you too," she croaks. 

There. Done. 

She should've expected it, but for some reason she doesn't; when Liam wraps her arms around Zayn's shoulder and pushes her into a hug, their chests pressed together, Zayn's heart hopelessly hammering, Liam's hair smelling of cleanness and shampoo and _Jessica_ , and Zayn has no other choice than just ride it out, hold her breath as she waits for it to end. 

*

The only noticeable difference the summer makes is the absence of classes – and of course, Liam, but Zayn is keeping herself busy enough not to think about that (she's supposed to be getting over it, but she's really not). She's got a shitty job as a waitress for the two months, working her arse off from ten to midnight every day and enduring the rude sutomers. Her mother wasn't exactly glad about it, what with her not going back home until who knows when, but she also said that it would make Zayn more independent. Zayn is more concerned with making the rent, especially now her parents have decided to scale back on the help.

It's not ideal, and Zayn isn't the most charming of waitresses, but _The Bean_ is at least cool enough that Zayn's tattoos don't attract as much as a raised eyebrow from either the patrons or the staff, so Zayn considers herself lucky. Besides, the staff knows her, and she has things to look forward when she's not working – the show with the girls at the end of the week, and of course the exhibition, though Zayn hasn't been getting that much painting done for weeks now. She's not going to lie, going back to her notebooks, all filled with absent doodles of Liam's jaw, her hands, her legs, isn't really at the top of her to-do list. On the other hand, at least one of the big paintings of her will end up at the exhibition – Zayn doesn't have enough of them to have the luxury of choice. 

What will it look like? Now it seems strange that Liam even accepted, knowing that she'd end like that, her back and shoulders bare, leaning against the frame in the light, hung up in a gallery where everyone can see her. Will she come to the exhibition? No, probably not. It's better that way, really – what would Zayn say? Look, look, that's how much I loved you, that's how much white and cadmium and black I mixed to make your skin luminous, to make your smile look like the real thing?

When she comes home that night, her muscles sore, she barely drags herself to the kitchen to grab a bottle of iced tea before she slumps into the couch. The impact punches a sigh out of her. It feels good, being so sanely, wholesomely tired; but also a little scary, coming back home and thinking, _I'm a grown-up now_. She never feels the right fit for the job. 

Usually, if she's not too tired, she tries to get an hour or two of painting in, but to be honest she's afraid to touch her brush to the canvas, afraid that the face that will emerge will be Liam's without her being able to do anything about it. It's always been her thing when it comes to Liam, this paralysing powerlessness – a weight that crushes her lungs and keeps her from moving. 

The show is on Saturday, so Louise, Aiden and Harry come over almost every day to rehearse. The neighbours complain about the noise, and they consider renting a space until they figure out that a) they don't have the money and b) the neighbours better get used to it. It's not the best policy, and it's likely to get Zayn evicted at some point or other, but as Niall puts it, they're 'carefree motherfuckers', so it's all good. 

They've gotten pretty good at music, actually, which is an achievement Zayn isn't half-proud of, especially considering how their first rehearsals used to go (mostly Harry and Louise obnoxiously making out on Niall's drum set and Aiden moaning about her love troubles with Matt and Nick). Their setlist is half covers of the Ramones, the Buzzcocks and a few other, less-known bands, as well as a couple of originals.

Nerves start building as the day of the concert gets increasingly close. It's not that they're afraid or anything, but it's the first real venue they've played since getting started and it's fucking terrifying. They're not actually getting paid for it, but Matt talked to the bartender, one of his numerous new acquaintances since he started working 'in the biz' and secured their spot. Zayn has literally no idea how. They're remunerated mostly in beer, which is good as far as Zayn is concerned, even though she wouldn't mind a few hard pounds. Still, she never says no to alcohol, and for now she isn't in danger of immediate starving, so life's good.

There's a last rehearsal at Zayn's flat on Saturday afternoon, the five of them butchering their instruments until sweat gleams over their tattoos and itches on their skulls. The last note rings in the focused silence. 

"Okay," Louise says, breathing in deep. "We're ready, right?"

 _No we're fucking not_ , Zayn wants to say, but instead she manages a weak smile and the accompanying nod. 

"Yeah," Niall says, sounding much more confident than her shaking hands attest to. 

Aiden shoots them a terrified glance from under her too-black eyelashes; Harry smiles, drawing Louise to her to catch her mouth in a quick, dirty kiss. 

"Keep that for the bedroom," Niall complains. 

"How about you apply that advice to yourself?" Zayn says; she's crashed at Niall's two days ago and it's not that she doesn't like Josh, but they're fucking noisy and Zayn doesn't really want to know all about sex life, no matter how fun and acrobatic it is. 

Niall shrugs. "I can't help it if I've got a healthy sex drive," she says cheekily. 

The others laugh; Zayn makes a disgusted frown to hide her own grin. "You're all disgusting and I hate you."

Louise lets out a bark of laugh. "Sure," she pats Zayn's head to placate her. Zayn pushes her hand away. Harry shoots her a shark smile from over Louise's shoulder. 

"Group hug!" Niall says suddenly, throwing her drumsticks to the ground. "C'mon, c'mon."

They all huddle around her. Zayn closes her arm over Louise's and Aiden's backs. It's fucking hot, and they're doing nothing less than sharing their sweat and melted make-up, but it feels amazingly good. Friendship is supposed to be like that, Zayn thinks, trying not to be brought back to Liam letting herself be pressed against the wall of their dorm, red dress hitched up to her hips. It's got nothing to do with anything. 

"We're rock stars," Harry says lazily, brushing her damp fringe out of her eyes. 

"We are," Zayn agrees. 

The venue is – well, it's a venue for a punk concert, let's say. The bouncer is a mountain of flesh and asks to see the manager three times before he's convinced that they're supposed to play there, the booze is eye-wateringly strong and the dressing-room looks more like a very small broom cupboard. It doesn't keep them from feeling bloody ecstatic, though, jumping up and down to try and get the cramps out of their feet and into the rest of their body. They're buzzing with anticipation, and it feels good, like being drunk or high but better, stronger – like it will never fade away. 

"We can do this," Aiden is muttering to herself in a corner, and Zayn wants to shake her shoulders and say "Of course you can, look at you," but she doesn't – she knows Aiden needs her time in the corner, and that's fine too. 

Zayn's on top of the world, though – she feels like she might explode if she doesn't go on stage soon and kicks the music out of her system. 

"In five," someone says – Zayn doesn't know who, literally, because it's not like the staff is either very considerate or very, well, _there_ , but she doesn't care. She's so excited she can't even see straight. 

Louise and Harry snog until literally the last minute – they only pull away when someone (the same person?) says "Go!" and they rush on stage, weak knees carrying them in front of an indifferent crowd they have to amaze. They're welcomed by tedious clapping, except for their friends's over-enthusiastic cheers and their few followers' crazed whistles. 

Aiden goes to stand behind her keyboards looking like she might throw up; Zayn's kind of afraid for a second, but it passes. It's just Aiden, she'll be fine, she's always fine. Zayn peers into the crowd to spot Matt and Nick. Their hands are intertwined on the table, and Matt's looking right ahead at Aiden, extraordinarily focused. Zayn spares a quick thought for their future – how will they turn out? Zayn has difficulty see anything they have lasting, but she isn't really known for her abundant faith. 

The first song goes well enough, though the audience doesn't really get into it. They relax with their instruments, taking in the atmosphere, the smell, the sounds. By the second song it's like they're on fire, as cliché as that might sound – Zayn feels like the guitar is stuck to her stomach, not like a child and not like a lover but like something else that is all of those things and a hundred more at the same time. 

The audience _does_ get into it, then, starts jumping and clamouring. Zayn blows a breath to get her sweat-slick hair out of her eyes and can't keep from smiling when she sees someone batting their foot to their, albeit erratic, measure. It's funny how one person is enough – enough to start it all, the ecstasy, the craziness.

And then it all goes mental. It's not even them, it's the whole thing, the music and the alcohol and the love that's full to bursting, the polished bar and the people who hug like they want to break each other. Zayn doesn't think she's ever been happier. She glances forward at Harry; she's singing like a woman possessed, hands cradling the mike and feet tapping to a rhythm only she knows, looking forward with black eyes. She's magnetic, and that probably has to do with a lot, too – the way Louise slides next to her and sings a chorus in her mike, the way the people in the audience look at her like you look at something you don't really understand but can't help reaching towards. It's got something to do with the way she sings and her tank top, the tattoos on her arms that seem to swirl to life sometimes, when she moves too fast. 

It feels like a split second, though, and then it's finished. They bow to the polite clapping. The audience's come back to its usual apathetic disdain and are focusing on their drinks, but Zayn doesn't mind. She knows what she just lived wasn't only in her head, and it's enough to feel worthy, pulsing and alive. They hug like giants when they slip offstage, wrists slipping out of their reach, damp, coloured skin. There's red high on their cheeks; Zayn's shoulder has the red imprint of her guitar strap pressed into the skin, and Niall's palms are bruised. It feels like heaven. 

They join the rest of the gang outside, staggering with the remnants of their high, to fall into their welcoming arms. Again, it's a flurry of kisses and congratulations, snarky jabs made at their dilated pupils – "stage hard-on, eh?" Nick teases Aiden, and she bites right into it, juicy and oddly proud like only young people can be. "You bet," she says, and grabs a handful of Matt's arse. Matt yelps. 

The night devolves into familiar drunkenness. They welcome it like an old, rags-dressed friend, letting him sit at their table, push drinks in their throats and confessions out of them. Caroline's plane is leaving tomorrow, so they shower her with kisses, too. 

"We're gonna miss you, Caz," Aimée says, his head resting in Caroline's lap. 

Caroline pets her hair, ruining the careful bedhead. Zayn wonders if they've slept together at some point. "I know, love," Caroline says, and then leans in to whisper something in Aimée ear, her hair hiding their faces. Aimée laughs. 

Zayn doesn't remember how the night ends. Sometimes it's a sad thing, it means walks of shame and glitter still stuck to your eyelids when you go to your lectures; Zayn wants to think it's all worth-it, though, if sometimes it's that, too – sliding into the darkness knowing that the arms around you are your friends', and trusting them to carry you to the next sunrise.


	4. Chapter 4

  
**part iv.**

_you're a question mark and a scar / and you twist me up like a tourniquet / i know chasing after you won't change a thing / and i hope you find it through / this endless wandering_ ([x](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=7U8E06V2k5Q))  


  
Zayn is – well, she's drinking. She wouldn't say she's drowning her sorrows, exactly, but she's currently drinking a large quantity of alcohol, partly to alleviate the still-ringing disappointment of her last conversation with Liam. It's been months, but she can't quite move past it. She thinks she has a right to, after all they went through together. Ten years of loving someone isn't exactly something you forget easily. Ten bloody years. Hard not to feel like they've been wasted, those ten years doing nothing but hoping, looking at Liam and hoping, blindly, faithfully.

She doesn't search for Sonoko when she comes back to her mum's for the weekend that summer, but Sonoko's here all the same. Zayn has a place waiting for her back in London – she left her old flat but made sure to lease a new one before she came home to make sure she would come back. She was afraid of the temptation of staying here out of pure self-preservation, to make sure that she wouldn't get hurt again. She feels cured of her adolescent wanderlust, but staying buried in your home town is no future. 

She comes back all the same, and there she is, Sonoko, in the records shop. It takes a few days for Zayn to actually go back there, a strange sort of superstition, or maybe wistfulness. But in the end she wants to take all the chances she has left. Sonoko is hovering near the punk section, which Zayn takes as a sign. She thanks her mentally for that, as though it was a planned happenstance.

"You're back," Sonoko says. There's no surprise in her eyes, but she doesn't look like she expected it either. Her eyes are still young. Tattoos crawling up her neck. 

"Yeah," Zayn nods. "Can we go outside? I want to smoke."

Sonoko lets go of the record she was holding, and Zayn wishes for a second that she hadn't. It's hot outside, another year since they haven't seen each other, but this one was longer than it looked, and so much happened. It's crazy, how much can happen in one year – isn't it? All this convoluted heartbreak.

"You okay?" Sonoko asks. 

"Mostly," Zayn says, and she slips a cigarette out of the pack, presents it to Sonoko. Sonoko takes it. 

There's a moment of almost-religious silence as smoke uncurls from their mouths and drifts up onto the clear summer sky. 

"Back for good?" Sonoko asks. Zayn wonders what made her think that – maybe the way Zayn holds herself, the cigarette. Maybe she thinks Zayn went looking for her. Maybe Zayn did. 

"I hope not," Zayn says. 

Sonoko glances back at the shop. She shifts on her feet; pebbles rattle on the asphalt. All the summers here are hot, hotter even than in London, stifling. How did Zayn not notice that when she was a kid? She can't breathe. 

"You want to..." Sonoko says, waving a vague hand towards the shop. 

Zayn takes a second to try and register all the differences in her – her hair is still mostly the same, a little more subdued. She has more tattoos and a few new piercings, creeping up her neck and face like a bizarrely elegant cockroach. Her neck is long. She may be a little prettier than she was last time, but not by much. 

"Sure," Zayn says. Heartbreak sticks to her skin like hives. She wants to get rid of it, itch it out. Sonoko will help her do that. 

Sonoko smiles. "Good," she says. 

For some reason it uncoils the tension between them. They get talking on the way home: Zayn asks Sonoko if she still plays trumpet, they talk about what happened during the year, joke, even kiss a little, on the cheeks and necks, pressing each other breathless against the walls of the town they know by heart. 

It's strange. They hadn't talked that much last time, and Zayn's mind was full of Liam, not mourning, like now, but a sort of heady, thrumming anticipation instead. She feels very light, like if she doesn't hold onto Sonoko's arm she might trip and fall, who knows, graze her knees on the ground and cry a little. 

Sonoko spins to look at her when Zayn takes her hand, surprised, but Zayn just looks on. It's not a declaration, and she hopes Sonoko doesn't mistake it as one – it's something Zayn needs, and she takes it because she's tired of not taking what she needs. Sonoko is smart; she'll get it. She has to. 

Sonoko doesn't ask any inconvenient questions while they walk back to her flat, and once inside they're too busy undressing each other and getting re-acquainted with each other's bodies that talking just really isn't on the program anymore. Zayn can't say she minds too much, especially like this, with Sonoko's dark head buried between her legs, sometimes peeking up to smile at her. It's disconcerting, how happy this all is. Zayn thinks she could get used to it for half a second, and then immediately feels guilt rise in hives between her ribs. She breathes in sharply. 

"You okay?" Sonoko asks, breathless. 

Zayn smiles down at her. "Yeah," she says, pushing her head back down. "I'm fine."

All in all, it's different from last time, though not in an entirely bad way – they take the time to talk and learn more about each other, and Zayn even mentions Liam and what happened with her, though quickly enough not to re-open the fresh wounds. Sonoko doesn't pry. 

When it's time for Zayn to go back to the house (she promised her mom she'd try and be there as often as possible, to make up for the rest of the summer she's spending up in London), they kiss lazily on Sonoko's doorstep. Sonoko's pyjamas are slung low on her hips and Zayn brushes the soft mix of skin and silk there without even thinking about it, at least until Sonoko rests her head on her shoulder and chuckles. 

"What?" Zayn asks, licking the rest of the kiss from her lips. 

"Nothing," Sonoko laughs. She touches her hands, tapping her nails on Zayn's knuckles. "It tickles, that's all."

Zayn takes her hand away, blushing. "Oh," she says. "Sorry."

Sonoko laughs again, sliding a hand over the curve of the nape of Zayn's neck. "You idiot," she says softly, leaning in. Zayn mirrors the movement. "C'mere," Sonoko says in a whisper, just as their lips meet in another kiss. 

Another half hour passes before Zayn finally makes it home. Her mum gives her the stink-eye as she walks in the house, but Zayn isn't eighteen anymore, so she doesn't really care. 

She's eating when it occurs to her, almost naturally, that Sonoko probably wouldn't feel out of place here. It wouldn't be hard telling her mom "this is my girlfriend" and Sonoko wouldn't mind, wouldn't say "I'm not a lesbian" or "we're just friends". It wouldn't be complicated. It probably wouldn't even be a little bit hard. 

She chases the thought out of her head, of course – no, too soon, not now, it feels like treason anyway – but it comes back to nag her the day after, and the day after that, even as she takes Sonoko to the ice-cream cart and buys her the flavours Zayn and Louise risked when they were kids to check if they were truly as disgusting as they looked. Like Louise and her used to, they lean against the bark of an oak tree and kiss with sugar-cool lips; like those ghosts from childhood memories, they get frantic and lazy and mellow, and they smile at each other while thinking of somewhere else. 

(Zayn doesn't take her to the trees where she carved her and Liam's names. It's a secret she doesn't think she'll ever be ready to share, except if it's with Liam, hand in hand. Ah, hope – it's a resistant vine, isn't it?)

"What are you doing next year?" Zayn happens to ask as they're lying in the grass, the back of their T-shirts sticking to their backs with leftover dew. It prickles a little, but not enough to get Zayn to move. 

"London," Sonoko says. 

That gets Zayn to haul herself up on one elbow. Sonoko's face strikes her for a second – the way she's just bowled over in the grass, trusting, her hair splayed around her head and her arms open to make a sort of punk garden angel. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah," Sonoko says. Her eyes are still shut, and she's smiling a little, maybe from having surprised Zayn. It doesn't happen often. 

"What're you gonna do there?" Zayn asks. 

"College," Sonoko says, finally opening her eyes. "I got into the Royal College of Music." Zayn gapes and hoists herself on both elbows; Sonoko's eyes are still closed but the smile is there, wide and crooked. Zayn has to lean in and kiss it off her lips. Sonoko lets out a quick chuckle in her mouth. 

"Wow," Zayn says, oddly breathless, mouth tasting of mint and dew. "Congratulations."

The silence stretches between them for a couple of minutes, settling over their bodies like a warm, invisible blanket. Zayn thinks about Sonoko's skin getting golden, but it drives her back to Liam, this summer they went to the beach with her parents, and – well. There's no use thinking about that. 

"My flat isn't there far from there," she says suddenly, out of the blue. 

Sonoko opens one eye. "Yeah?" She looks like she might be reading more than what Zayn's saying into what she's saying, and for a second Zayn thinks about correcting her. 

"Yeah," she answers instead. "You could come over sometimes, if you want. Ring me when you get there, okay?"

Sonoko entwines their fingers. Zayn wonders if she'll ask her now to come and get her at the train station, but she doesn't. In a way, she probably understands Zayn a thousand times better than Liam did – does.

"I will," Sonoko says. It sounds a little more definitive than Zayn wants, a little more like a promise than it does a distant wish, but it's okay. It's too hot to worry about these kind of things, anyway. She'll worry about it later. Yeah. Later. 

Zayn doesn't know how or when they fell asleep, but when she wakes up it's already dusk. The sky is a pale brown peppered with pink, and she takes a few seconds to register the hues in her mind (to use on a later painting, maybe complete one of her portraits of Liam, for the erect nubs of her nipples) before she shakes herself awake. It's always a nice in-between, this lingering between sleep and awareness; you see dreams become true and you believe, for a moment, out of laziness.

She snaps out of it, though. Sonoko is still lying next to her, her arms folded on her stomach, looking strangely vulnerable. Her green eyeshadow is half-faded on her eyelids and her lips are pulled in a smile, as though she was dreaming of a gentler future. 

"Sonoko," Zayn says. It's a mouthful – she should find her a nickname, she thinks. It's another sliver of intimacy, but Zayn can't bring herself to care half as much as she should. 

"Sonoko," she says, louder, when Sonoko doesn't stir. She wants to let her sleep – it's not so much about her beauty as it is about silence, the way no one can lie when they're curled around themselves, bodies wrapping their own ribcages in tightrope embraces. 

She shakes her shoulder. "Love," she says, softer. Sonoko opens an eye. 

"Hey", she says. 

Zayn might have leant down to kiss her on the lips, just to press the dew that's hanging in the air between them down into Sonoko's throat. The night protects her – if she did, no one saw, not even her. 

"We should move," Zayn says. 

"Yeah," Sonoko says. 

They don't move for a few more minutes, though, lying there uncomfortably entangled on the dark, damp grass. It's cold and long but for some reason it doesn't feel bad, like waking up. 

Eventually they do stumble upwards – Zayn reaches out for Sonoko's hand and she takes it, propelling herself up with a belly laugh. Sonoko lets her body melt into Zayn's arms. 

"D'you wanna come home?" she asks, raising her grey eyes to Zayn. She's not forcing her, that much is obvious, but if Zayn wants to, she can. No pressure. There's a towel there, a trumpet leaning against one of the walls, a mattress, Sonoko's naked body, the shower... she could. She could go.

"Let's," Zayn says. It's not that she's sure, really. She's just tired of doubt, of being afraid. Time she took matters into her own hands, yeah? 

Sonoko smiles at her. It's funny, how she seems younger when she smiles. "Good," she says, pressing the word against the seam of Zayn's lips. 

It's really all Zayn expected. They walk hurriedly in the little streets, cursing when a hot summer rain sprinkles its tears down their backs. Hand in hand, they pass people they know and don't stop to talk to. It's raining, and besides, there's a whole summer for the introductions. They mingle with the umbrella-shielded crowd until they get to Sonoko's building. 

Sonoko pushes Zayn in and flicks a switch on. The light is low and comfortable, pleasantly orange. It has fun drawing the blurry shapes of their bodies against the wall, and they play with it for a few seconds, twisting their fingers, their bodies taking on new, original shapes. 

"You can take a shower, if you want," Sonoko says. 

Zayn smiles. That's the thing she likes with Sonoko – the way she never presses anything on, doesn't urge, don't insist. Just says things and leaves them open, not like Liam's Pandora boxes but rather like comfortable jars of olive oil, liquid glowing golden around their sharp-cheekboned reflections. 

"Thanks," Zayn says. She hesitates for a moment – but fuck it. "You wanna come?"

Sonoko lets out a little, clarinet-sound laugh. "Thought you'd never ask," she says, throwing a lazy wink in Zayn's direction. 

The shower is perfect. Sonoko likes it colder than Zayn but it's fine when it's like this, tangled together against the tiled wall, lukewarm water falling down their backs in cascades. It's hot enough, anyway – Zayn wouldn't have much use for the water that scorches and scrubs cleaner than clean. 

"Hold on," she says. 

She kneels on the tiled floor, wincing when it hurts her knees. "You should get a mat or something," she groans, looking up to Sonoko. 

Sonoko smiles, flattering a finger around the edge of Zayn's jaw. "Not really used to having girls kneel in my shower, to be honest," she says, sounding delighted. It probably shouldn't be as hot as it is. 

"Well, you should," Zayn says, pupils blown. She kneels forward, until she's breathing across Sonoko's thighs, ignores the pain that shoots up her legs. 

"You're right," Sonoko whispers. Zayn wonders when kneeling ever got her so worked up, maybe that's a problem in itself.

She can't help comparing Sonoko to Liam, though – her legs are paler and her mouth narrower, her teeth less shiny. They're as good as each other, Zayn tries to convince herself, but it's hard to be neutral when you're the one getting your heart broken every fortnight. Oh, well. It'll pass, it'll probably pass. 

Sonoko lets out a frustrated whine. "C'mon," she says, gripping Zayn's jaw more forcibly. "C'mon, now, Zayn. Don't make me wait."

"We should really find you a nickname," Zayn says lazily, and then she darts her tongue and teases shapes on the flesh of Sonoko's thighs, a star, a heart, stupid things she can't even identify. 

"Say please," she says when Sonoko's moans turn a low-pitch whine, almost a growl. "Say please."

" _Please_ ," Sonoko says petulantly. It makes Zayn laugh. 

"Okay, okay," she soothes; her tongue wanders in the crease where the bone of her hips meets her thigh, lower, lower...

"Fuck _fuck_ ," Sonoko chokes out. 

"Language," Zayn berates – the word vibrates in the flesh and Sonoko's hips jerk, leaving the tiled wall for a second, back taut, before falling back. 

There's not much conversation after that, if not for Sonoko holding Zayn's wet hair in fistfuls and making it rain on her cheeks like tears and Zayn licking her towards bliss, the water chanting on the tiled wall, warm on their unsoaped bodies. They always say bodies talk, and these ones do talk – Zayn's knees hurt and chatter, Sonoko's arms yield, her mouth hangs open and murmurs slow. 

She comes quietly and with a muffled groan, her cheek mashed against the tiled wall. She slides down for a second, breathing the fogged air in with a small, exhausted smile. 

"Up, up," she says, grabbing Zayn's arm. Zayn shrugs free. There's no heat behind it – she just doesn't like it when people hold her like that, like they want to hurt her, a spot of old paranoia. 

Zayn is quieter but it's good like that as well. Sonoko's cheek is red and Zayn's knees are too. Sonoko slips her fingers into Zayn and Zayn thanks her breathlessly, pushing upwards with shallow thrusts of her hips. This feels so domestic, so easy. Who needs true love when things are true like that? 

They sit cross-legged on the tiled shower floor when they're done, making out lazily, mouths sliding against each other without great purpose. 

"That was good," Zayn says for lack of something more significant. 

"I know," Sonoko answers. She doesn't ask for anything _more_. Zayn wonders what Liam would've said – but then, Liam probably wouldn't have wanted to do it like that, because a shower is made to get clean and there's the bed when you want to have sex. No, she's being unfair. Or is she? 

They watch _Mister Nobody_ on Sonoko's laptop and drink white wine with a few borderline-stale shrimps Sonoko had left in her fridge. Sonoko kisses her throat and Zayn lets her, even reciprocates when she isn't too involved in the story, legs folded beneath her (she's wearing track bottoms Sonoko lent her, beige and soft against her clean-smelling skin) and bust leaning forward. Sonoko laughs at her fascination. 

When the film is over and Zayn is done ranting about it they argue about which music to put on. It ends up with the two of them lying on the carpet, limbs entangled and listening to Fiona Apple. 

"This shit is depressing," Sonoko says drunkenly, twisting her mouth. 

"Disgustingly depressing," Zayn answers, just as drunkenly. She's kind of impressed at herself for managing the alliteration, actually.

It's a sort of hazy inebriation, the good kind, the kind you have with a friend, when you're not afraid of what might slip from your tight lips or what you might let your body do. It's comfortable – there really aren't any other words than this one. Comfortable. Like the triangle-patterned rug, like the deep sofa, like the – well, no, not the shower. Point is. Comfortable. 

"I've got weed," Sonoko says, turning towards her and opening a crocodile eye. "You want some?"

"You're great," Zayn says, making grabby hands at her until she consents to be kissed sloppily on the corner of her mouth. Zayn's aim is slightly faulty when she's drunk. "Top-notch. You're a star."

"Yeah, yeah," Sonoko smiles. "Save it."

She cuts off Zayn's protests by going to get the weed. They smoke a joint together, sitting cross-legged on the rug, knees touching, passing it between them.

Zayn remembers spending evenings like that with Louise, when they used to invent new meanings for their tattoos, tell stupid jokes and make out if they felt up to it. Zayn wouldn't say those were the best days of her life (there have been many others, long, bellowing nights spent in the slow haze of music with the gang last summer in London, holding Liam's hand when she was a child and being careless and sun-showered, others, even -) but they weren't far from it. 

"No, I mean it," she says half an hour after, resting her head on Sonoko's stomach and petting one of the tattoos on her arm, a long-limbed, stylised mermaid. 

"What?" Sonoko says, frowning. 

"No, nothing," Zayn swallows back, rising up to kiss her face, her eyes, her cheeks. "You're fine. You're okay. Go to sleep."

They do manage to drag themselves to the bed, which is the proof of a monumental effort and a lot of responsibility on both their parts. In the end, though, the sheets are largely more comfortable than any part of the old rug. The summer crackles outside, in the calm streets. 

"You'll love living in London," Zayn says, on the brink of sleep, holding Sonoko close for a second before letting her drift to her side of the bed, unmoored. 

"I know I will," Sonoko says sleepily, not bothering to turn towards Zayn, her limbs like jelly. "Will you be there with me?"

Weed unscrews the questions from her teeth, too, Zayn thinks – but this is no time to have this kind of conversation, and she's way too tired to make a decision, anyway. 

"Night," she says. 

*

The summer passes quickly as it invariably does. Zayn holds on to her decision not to bring Sonoko to her mum's house (was it even a decision? Maybe not. Just the better bad choice, probably) for all of two weekends, after which she figures it doesn't amount to anything, and really, she'd better get it out of the way. She can always say Sonoko's a friend. 

And she is – a friend. They laugh together and do things that friends do, go to bowling and to the cinema and draw and listen to music and tell crude jokes – they just happen to sleep together as well. It really is no big deal, if you think about it. It's not like they're dating or anything. 

But it turns out maybe they are, because Zayn intends to say "Mum, this is my friend Sonoko" and she ends up saying "Mum, this is Sonoko, we're dating" instead, and she doesn't even know how it happened, only Sonoko was looking at her, gentle and agreeable and she probably wouldn't mind being introduced as a friend and she _deserves_ this. It's probably not what she needs, but it's obviously what she wants, and maybe Zayn's tired of the drama. Maybe she just wants something to go well for once.

To her credit, Zayn's mum doesn't have much of a reaction. 

"Nice to meet you," she says to Sonoko distractedly. "Zayn, darling, can you set the table? Don't let her make you help, Sonoko, you're the guest. Alright, alright, girls, I have to go, the lamb is cooking, I don't want it to burn."

Her father is a little less warm, but then he's never really believed Zayn when she said she was a lesbian, and Sonoko's appearance isn't exactly traditional. 

Sonoko goes along with it all, sets the table with Zayn, snogs her over the plates when no one is looking, compliments the food and explains that she plays the trumpet and is concerned about the environment when she's asked. She really _is_ perfect, Zayn thinks – it's a shame... but no. it isn't. Maybe she can do this. Liam is gone, after all. Zayn needs to screw this into her head once and for all. 

The only awkward moment is when Zayn's mum asks about Liam. 

"How is she doing?" she asks Zayn, handing Sonoko the salad. "It's been forever since we haven't seen her. Is she okay? You two are still friends, right?"

The headache starts up almost immediately, buzzing in Zayn's skull with the strength of a chainsaw. God. "We don't really talk anymore," she shrugs, trying to sound casual. "She's really busy with her studies, you know Liam."

"That's right, she was always an eager beaver. It wouldn't surprise me if she ended up on TV one of those days," Zayn's mum says, and then she's gone on another track, career and job and future. It's not particularly pleasant, but at least it's not Liam. Sonoko smiles at her from the opposite side of the table – for a second Zayn gets the piercing urge to lean over the table and kiss her square on the mouth, but then it passes. 

She feels heavy when they leave, full with the mostly inane conversation and home-cooked food. Zayn's mother kisses them both on both cheeks, says _be safe_ and _take care_ when Zayn tells her she's sleeping at Sonoko's. Sonoko thanks her for everything. Her father even smiles at her when he shakes her hand. She'll probably be welcome if she wants to come back.

Zayn and Sonoko comes back a few times during the summer, even though usually they prefer to hang out together at Sonoko's or in the tpwn streets rather than have to make polite conversation over chicken tikka masala. But when they do it's nice, too – Zayn's father sets up the table outside and they eat in the night air, slapping their bare arms and legs every time the mosquitoes get too close. Zayn's parents get used to Sonoko as easily as they had Liam once they understood it was a forever kind of thing. Well. _Was_ being the operative word here. 

They don't talk about London. Sonoko doesn't broach the subject, and Zayn has no idea what she would say were she to actually say something. It's not like it's awkward or anything, they just – don't talk about it. But then, the summer isn't over, they'll have time before Zayn goes back there permanently. 

Meanwhile, she finds herself wishing she'd found Sonoko before Liam. She's beautiful, uncomplicated, funny; she cooks and she plays music and Zayn hasn't been with a lot of girls as enthusiastic about eating pussy as she is. There's still the telltale ache every time someone mentions Liam, but lately it's been getting duller, muffled by all the rest, as though Zayn's heart was getting a bit of protective stuffing, after all this time. It feels good, to be happy like that, without wondering if she should feel guilty about it – it feels new. 

Sonoko only asks about her once. It's mid-August and they're lying in her bed, naked over the sheets, spent after a round of sex much too acrobatic for this kind of temperature. 

Sonoko spreads her arms, sighing. "Why is it so hot? It didn't used to be so hot when I was a kid."

Zayn laughs. "Yes it did, only now we can't run around half naked under sprinklers."

Sonoko rolls on her side, grinning. "Can't we?"

Zayn grins back at the idea and pushes herself forward, just a little. They make out for a while, lazy and slow, but eventually it's too hot to even think about going again, and they pull away after a bit, naturally. 

Sonoko crosses her arm behind her head. Zayn likes that about her, how unbothered she is with her own nakedness; the way she'll prance around the kitchen wearing nothing but a thong and her tattoos, complaining about the dishes that they should've done the night before instead of getting drunk and fucking on the rug again. 

"You should tell me sometime," she's saying now, casual but with a serious edge that makes Zayn pay attention, even as she's threatening to fall asleep. 

"Tell you what?"

"What happened with Liam."

Zayn can't really help the way she tenses up, her whole body coiling at the name. 

"You don't have to tell me everything," Sonoko continues. Her voice is gentle, soothing but devoid of the pity Zayn hates so much. "Just – you know. I just want to know what this girl did to hurt you so much."

It sounds reasonable – it is reasonable, and yet Zayn wants to hoard her pain, keep it for herself and pretends that it's immense and unbearable instead of the stupid textbook crush on her closeted best friend. She breathes in through her nose. You'd think she'd have gotten better, by now – but then it's not like you can really make peace with something when you spend your time avoiding it. 

"It's not exactly a happy story."

Sonoko rubs her arm, her knuckles digging slightly into Zayn's flesh. Zayn wonders how she knew it would be reassuring. "It's fine. You don't have to tell me now. When you're ready."

Zayn gives a short laugh. "How did you get like this?" she asks, rolling over against and leaning in so that her forehead is almost touching Sonoko's, looking right into her eyes.

Sonoko shrugs, but she doesn't look away. "Like what?"

Zayn gives her a look, _you know like what_. She leans in and their lips fit, for the first time, with more gravity than they're used to; a strange thunderous quality that rolls between Zayn's shoulder-blades, and Sonoko keeps staring up, _I'm not stupid, I'm not a child_. For some reason that makes Zayn want her a little more. She shifts her thighs together, biting a smile at the friction. 

"I'll tell you," she bites Sonoko's earlobe teasingly. "When I'm ready, okay?"

Sonoko could insist, say she's had plenty of time to get ready, say they can't keep doing this as long as she doesn't know. But she just leans back, baring her neck, her eyes falling shut slowly. "Sure," she whispers. "As long as you want."

"Good," Zayn says, trailing her fingers down until she finds the familiar curve of Sonoko's hip, the downward slope of her thigh, and that's that. 

*

Zayn returns to uni in September feeling invigorated and half as miserable as she did when she left before the summer. She's got a girlfriend, her tan is great, Liam is not quite a distant shadow but is well on her way there, and Zayn hasn't felt this good since god knows how long. She greets Louise on campus with both arms secured tightly around her waist, breathing her in, the salty tang of sweat and the now-familiar smell of Harry. They've called each other during the summer, but Louise spent most of the break backpacking with Harry across Europe again and her few visits back home didn't overlap Zayn's, much as they tried to make them.

"I've missed you," Zayn breathes in Louise's neck. 

Louise kisses her shoulder. "Me too." She laughs, tightens her arms around Zayn. "You big sap."

Harry comes up behind her, sauntering like a fucking deer. She throws her arms around the both of them, smiling so wide Zayn's half-worried her face is actually going to split. "Group hug!" she says with about none of her usual smoothness. 

They continue with the PDA for long enough that fellow students start throwing curious looks their way, probably wondering if they're some sort of weird polyamorous lesbian group or something. Eventually they pull away, cheeks flushed, arms still slung around each other's shoulders. It's mildly uncomfortable, but that doesn't really factor in. 

"So," Zayn says when she's finally caught her breath, laughing a little without real reason, "how was your time prancing around Europe?"

"You know," Harry shrugs, her grin still enormous. "Lots of walking, eating and shagging, as usual. Also frighteningly good-looking French girls." She leans into Zayn, impish. "You wouldn't -"

Louise covers her mouth, trying and failing to look stern. "What Harry means to say is that we had a very nice time." She cocks her head. "And met some _very_ nice people," she amends, biting her bottom lip. 

Zayn looks between the two of them. "You didn't – you know what, I don't want to know what you got up to. I take back the question."

Harry struggles free of Louise's grip. "That girl, Justine, she -"

"I _don't_ want to know. Keep your kinky sex life to yourself, Styles, jesus."

Harry laughs, but she doesn't say more, only nestles under Louise's arm like she belongs there. Zayn is starting to think that maybe she does. It's a little strange, equating this, the two of them, hale and grinning with their hands all over each other, with the pale, lank sarcastic girl Zayn had the hots for in high school, but it makes her happy all the same. Maybe there's hope for her still. 

"What about you, then?" Louise asks. She grabs Zayn's bag on the ground where she discarded it and digs in it for a fag, not bothering to ask for permission. Harry slaps her hand when she realises what she's doing, throws her a look. The domesticity would make Zayn want to puke if they weren't so damn adorable. "What did you get up to while Haz and I were living the dream in the city of lights?"

Zayn has half a mind to ask them if they even got out of their hotel room in Paris except to search for strangers to fuck, but in the end she just rocks on her heels, sticking her hands in the pockets of her shorts. "Nothing as exciting as you," she says. "I had that job as a waitress at _The Bean_ , and other than that I went home a bit."

Louise frowns. "You look happy, though. Something must've happened. Explain."

Her tone makes Zayn smile. "Bossy much?" she asks, and then she catches Harry's eyes, the dilated ring of her irises. "Ugh, Styles, keep it in your pants, would ya?"

Harry doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed; she gives a rolling shrug, her lips quirking in a sly smile. Zayn fakes a grimace to hide the smile that's threatening to take over her face. God, she missed those fuckers.

"No, nothing happened," she tells Louise. "I just..." she bows her head, scratching the back of her neck. "You remember that girl I told you about, Sonoko, from back home?"

Louise raises a knowing eyebrow. "Ah. There we go."

"Shut up. Anyway, yeah, I saw her again, we… I don't know, she's cool, I guess. She came to dinner."

Ah – now Louise's surprised. "With your parents? It's serious, then."

"I don't know. Maybe. Probably." Honestly, Zayn would be hard pressed to give a better answer than that – it's not like she has any idea. The only thing she knows is that Sonoko makes her feel good, she's not Liam, and being with her feels... it feels nice. Quiet.

She doesn't exactly expect it when Louise pulls her into a hug again, but in retrospect maybe she should've. "Good for you, girl. I'm glad you got over -" she gives Zayn a knowing look. "You know."

"Yeah," Harry pipes up. "It was time you stopped acting like a character out of _Hamlet_. I know you're a literature major, but it was seriously ruining our vibe."

Zayn smacks her arm lightly. "Piss off."

Eventually Louise pulls away and regards the three of them, her eyelids low. "Enough with the cheesiness," she decrees. "Let's go and skip our first class of the year."

Harry and Zayn cheer, not even bothering to hide their smiles. 

*

As promised, Sonoko rings her up when she gets to London. It's not as early in the year as Zayn expected, but she explains that she'd been busy with registration, setting herself in her dorm, and getting dutifully hammered with her new classmates. Zayn doesn't have any trouble forgiving her, and she invites her down to _The Bean_ for a coffee. The situation's a bit cloudy – Zayn isn't exactly sure where they stand with each other, after parting at the end of the summer with no more than a kiss more heated than usual and a lazy "see you around" – but Zayn isn't as nervous as she expected. 

She dresses as she would for a date, which is useless since Sonoko's already seen her in various states of undress, but the start of the school year is making her want to get herself dolled up again. She slides into a pair of frayed jean short and pulls on a large, strappy top, even goes as far as to accessorise with a few bangles and a slash of red lipstick. A pair of high heels later, she looks at her reflection in the mirror and decides that she's – well, she's a babe, there's no other word for it. It feels good, new, to like herself again. 

When she arrives at _The Bean_ she waves at Sheila, her co-worker during the summer, and heads directly to the table where Sonoko is already sitting, flipping through the – admittedly sparse – menu. Zayn lets her eyes swipe her over while she's not looking: she's obviously made an effort too, though in a different way, her dreads bunched up over her head and about a dozen silver hoops at each ear; she's biting on her bottom lip absently as she makes her choice. She looks gorgeous. 

"Hey," she says as she slides in the booth opposite her. 

Sonoko's head snaps up, her face relaxing into a smile when she sees Zayn. "Hey."

It's awkward for a minute, the time for them to wonder if they should be kissing or not, what with the table between them, the public place factor and the fact that they don't know exactly where they stand with each other, but then Sonoko says, "I don't even know what half those things mean," pointing at the menu with a dejected look, and Zayn laughs and explains that even though its name doesn't proclaim it _The Bean_ is a weird fucking place with dishes from all over, then suggest to order what sounds the most exotic, and just like that the awkwardness is dispelled. 

The rest of the evening goes like a charm. Conversation's never been the issue between them, and they talk about pretty much everything, Sonoko's new school and how much she loves it, the girls there, how Zayn's managed to pass out drunk in no less than three different bathtubs since the beginning of her university career, her parents, the school newspaper Sonoko wants to try and get into. 

It's only towards the end of the dinner, when they're moaning over their _gulab jamun_ , attracting half-worried, half-aroused glances from the other customers, that they broach the topic of their relationship. "So," says Sonoko, smiling from the corner of her mouth. 

"So," Zayn answers. 

Sonoko licks her fingers. Zayn doesn't know if she's doing it on purpose to confound Zayn – she probably is, the fiend -, but if she is, it's working. "Stop that," she groans. 

Sonoko gives her a sly look from beneath her eyelashes. "What, am I distracting you?" she laughs. "Sorry." She finishes cleaning her fingers on her napkin. "Seriously, though. Are we doing this?"

Zayn blinks. She didn't expect her to be this direct, even though in hindsight she probably should've. Sonoko isn't exactly the type to beat around the bush. "I guess so, yeah," she shrugs, projecting about twice the casualness she actually feels. "If you want to?" she didn't mean it to sound so questioning, but it does. 

Sonoko smiles. "You know I want to."

"Good." Zayn smiles back at her and for a second it's just that, the two of them grinning like dopes over their dessert. "Good."

"Good," Sonoko repeats, gently mocking. "You've got to tell me, though."

Zayn doesn't pretend not to know what she's talking about; they're past that now, she thinks. "Yeah," she sighs. "I guess I do."

She takes a breath. How to start? It's just – she hates how trivial it sounds, that's all. She's spent ten years on that fucking crush, two tattoos, whole fucking notebooks crammed with drawings, and now it's just... gone. Poof, vanished. 

"So, Liam," she says, keeping her eyes firmly rooted on the table. "We were best friends when we were kids, then we kind of... I don't know, fell out of touch, I guess. We reconnected last year, I'd had a crush on her for forever, and she was..."

"Straight," Sonoko supplies. 

Zayn's mouth twists in a bitter grin. "Not exactly. Curious. Closeted. Call it what you want. So we fucked for a while, while she was still fucking guys, going on _dates_ , I don't know. We fought. She left. That's all."

"I'm sorry," Sonoko says quietly. 

The brouhaha that was the restaurant when they came in has settled to a low hum, as though to accommodate Zayn's mood. "Nothing to be sorry about. I was just stupid. I'm over it now."

Sonoko doesn't call her on the obvious lie. She takes a _gulab jarum_ in the bowl, chews on it slowly. "Where is she now?" she asks. 

Zayn looks up – it's not the question she expected. "I don't know. She came out a little while after we – broke up of whatever. Last time I saw her she was with this girl, Jessica. She looked happy."

Sonoko's hand settles her arm, gentle, her fingers a bit sticky with sugar. Zayn still doesn't get how she's so good with all that feelings stuff while still being so young, but she's grateful for it. "That's good, isn't it?" 

"I guess."

They stand like that for a second, in silence, Sonoko's hand stroking Zayn's forearm. The music streams lightly in the background, the night is warm but not overly hot, and all in all the usual deep-seated, aching sadness that usually invades Zayn when she talks about this eludes her. She waits for it, but after a while, when it becomes obvious that it's not going to come after all, she relaxes back in her chair, exhaling a soft sigh. "So we are doing this."

Sonoko nods slowly. "Yeah. You should send me your schedule, so we can figure out when we can see each other."

The casual sentence throws Zayn a little off-balance – it sounds so much like a real thing, a relationship where each party makes efforts and compromises and arranges their schedule around each other, and that's because it is. It _is_ a real relationship.

"Sure," she says after a while. "Yeah, i'll do that."

Sonoko squeezes her hand one last time, as though she got that too, Zayn's split-second hesitance at a concept so strange as a normal fucking relationship, then takes her hand back.

"This is delicious," she says, gesturing to the bowl. Her smile digs dimples into her cheeks, like a child's. 

Zayn wants to say something – _why are you so good to me_ -, but the words stick in her throat, so instead she just hauls herself over the table, takes Sonoko's jaw between thumb and forefinger and kisses the sugar off her lips, taking a sliver of laughter with it. 

*

Zayn doesn't actually see Liam for nearly three months. It didn't seem like the campus was that big last year, when Zayn was so busy avoiding her, but now it's a maze. Whatever courses Liam's taken this year, their paths almost never cross, although Zayn does see Jessica a few times at the end of a corridor and wonders absently if they're still together. Still, she doesn't give it more than a half-thought, busy as she is with her classes, the band, her friends and Sonoko. 

That's going better than Zayn expected – though she doesn't know why she expected it to go badly, seeing how easy it's been since they started. Probably her pessimist streak. Still, it's been almost absurdly easy. Sonoko isn't demanding or clingy, she loves the band, turns up at all their gigs wearing the deliciously ironic T-shirt Louise designed for them. She calls herself their number one fan in a way that manages not to be annoying, keeps a booth for them while they're playing gigs and climbs on Zayn's lap as soon as it's over, kissing the sweat off the corner of her mouth. 

Louise and Harry never fail to make the traditional gagging noises, but Zayn usually flips them off, saying she's taking revenge for all those hours of practice they missed waiting for two of them to get off each other. Either way, the two of them and Aiden have taken to Sonoko even more quickly than Zayn expected, barely even giving her a once-over before accepting them into the gang. The rest of them – Nick and Matt, Niall and Josh, Ian, Caroline and Aimée when they actually manage to get their arses in gear and visit them – are equally enthusiastic. Sonoko didn't even blink, even though she did quirk an eyebrow the first time she witnessed the complicated ritual of the Matt-Aiden-Nick greeting. Zayn gave her that look, though, _don't even try to understand, just go with it_ , and since then she's gotten used to it like they all have. Now she doesn't even look surprised when the three of them disappear into club toilets halfway through the night, except sometimes when she whispers a drunken question in Zayn's ear about how they manage to fit all those limbs in one stall. 

The night Zayn sees Liam, though, Sonoko's not there. She's got a recital tomorrow, and she called earlier in the night to tell Zayn she couldn't make it, said to apologise to the rest of the group for her. Zayn said 'love you' at the end of the call, like they do now – they've never said "I love you", the proper entire phrase, except maybe while they were fucking, but it doesn't seem to matter. Those hurried endearments over the phone are enough to say what they mean: I care about you, I trust you, I'd miss you if you were gone. 

They're preparing to go on stage. Zayn is fixing her bangles around her wrist, sneaking a glance over at herself in the mirror to see if she's got enough eyeliner on, when Niall barges into the room. "Zayn -" she starts, but Louise interrupts her.

"Where were you?" she snaps. She always gets nervous before shows, she's a total control freak that way. "We were waiting for you."

Niall's eyes flash – she's not an angry person, but Louise always manages to bait her for some reason – but Zayn refocuses her attention. "What?"

Niall turns back to her. "Okay, don't freak out, but Liam's totally in the crowd."

The warning is pretty much useless, given how fast Zayn's stomach clenches and she starts feeling sick, her head taken over by an unpleasant kind of blurriness. "What?" she says dumbly.

"Liam. In the crowd."

"I get it," Zayn snaps. Niall's face falls – "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I mean, what is she doing here?"

Niall shrugs. One of the waiters pops his head into the room to tell them they've got two minutes before it's their turn. He looks appropriately awed at the sight of Louise, her arms crossed, her black-circled eyes flashing fiercely, and Zayn feels a pang of pride through the panic. 

She runs her hands over her face, only remembering belatedly to mind her make-up. "Okay, okay." She takes a breath. God, she should not get so worked up over this, this is ridiculous. "Is she alone?" It's out of her mouth before she can think better of it, and she's ashamed, sure, but now that she's said it she wants to know the answer, a burning, jealous kind of want. She berates herself mentally. She shouldn't feel like that still. She has a _girlfriend_ , for god's sake. A perfectly nice and beautiful and _perfect_ girlfriend, who – 

"Yes," Niall says. 

Relief floods through Zayn's body. She turns back towards the mirror, ignoring Louise's worried glance at her and Aiden starting to bite at her black-painted nails behind her. "It's a free country," she says after a while, with belated casualness. The waiter calls for them again. "We should go."

She grabs her bass by the neck but the rest of them don't move, only stand around her, their worried gazes trained on her. "I'm fine," Zayn insists. "It was ages ago. I'm fine. Let's go."

They frown in unison, but after a few shared looks they seem to decide to swallow the lie. _We'll talk about it_ , Zayn reads in Louise's eyes; she shrugs back, _sure, but there's nothing to talk about_. Despite the situation, Harry quirks a smile at them, amused as always by their flawless silent communication. Good thing she's not the jealous type.

The gig goes fine. The energy isn't exactly the best they've ever had, the bar's a bit too posh for that and besides Sonoko's not there to cheer them on and dance like a maniac from her booth, but other than that they sound as good as ever. They've been getting better, actually, and Nick's told them that now that he knows a few people in the music industry he could try and hook them up with a producer. They've been trying not to get their hopes up, but Zayn can feel that it's made them sound even better, hope infusing every one of their riffs, the hot slide of Harry's voice – the hope for something _more_ , better.

Zayn does her best not to search for Liam in the crowd, but her eyes fall on her almost out of habit, finding the brown hair and soft face she knows so well. She's bobbing her head gently, teeth tugging on the straw in her Pepsi – she still doesn't drink alcohol, after all this time -; she looks like she's enjoying the music in an all-bodied, absent kind of way that Zayn didn't think she was capable of, her hands tracing strange shape over the sides of her thighs. 

There's something different about her, actually. Zayn isn't exactly sure what it is, nothing outwards (she's still wearing the same grandmother clothes Zayn's used to, coupled with the bare minimum of make-up, flats and her usual uptight ponytail), but there's something in the way she stands, the looseness of it. It's like – that's a terrible metaphor, but whatever, it's not like Zayn's an English lit major or anything – a weight's been lifted off her shoulder and now she can breathe easier. She already looked more liberated the last time Zayn saw her, with Jessica, but maybe a little less than now – then again, Zayn was distracted by being, you know, heartbroken, so. 

They're all grinning and high on adrenalin by the time they finish their set, as usual. They bow to the crowd and pack up the equipment before coming back inside and slumping into a booth, exhausted. They play rock paper scissors to decide who goes to get drinks and Harry, who is notoriously bad at the game but for some reason never ask that they play something else, ends up losing. They all watch her drag her feet to the bar and flirt shamelessly with the pretty redhead bartender, her arms crossed on the wooden countertop. Zayn sneaks a glance at Louise, but when she sees her eyes, black and trained on Harry like she wants to eat her whole, she decides it easier not to ask. She's not sure she wants to know. 

She forgets to worry about Liam while they drink, spilling on each other, mouths full of bad jokes and easy ribbings. Aiden informs them on the latest drama in her, Matt and Nick's carnival, but when they offer their condolences she just shrugs and says, "make-up sex," her lips quirked, impish. Eventually it gets late and Louise and Harry start dropping hints about being tired – though Zayn has an unfortunately precise idea of what they're going to do when they get back home, and it is only very loosely related with sleep. Aiden drops a few twenties on the table, telling the rest of them they'll pay her back when they can, and they head towards the door. 

Zayn is trying to negotiate her way between a guy with the circumference of a truck driver and a pixie-looking girl with purple glittery eyelashes without provoking a brawl when a hand wraps around her arm. She turns around, ready to tell off whatever creepy guy with a fetish for punk girls has decided she looks like a good target for tonight, but stops short at the sight of the person in front of her. 

"Liam," she says. 

Liam looks down, her cheeks colouring a little. "Hey," she says. There's a beat, and then Liam seems to gather her courage to ask – "can we talk?"

Harry turns around from the door and catches her eye over the crowd, quirking an eyebrow to ask if she's coming. Zayn waves a hand, signalling she'll follow later. _Text me_ , Harry signifies with a complicated hand gesture. Zayn rolls her eyes. 

She turns back to Liam who's waiting, her hand still curled around Zayn's forearm. She lets go when Zayn's eyes drop on it, sheepish. "Let me get a glass of water," Zayn says. No doubt she'll need to be sober for this. 

Eventually she manages to find both her water and a way out the club and they settle outside, against the wall. The night's just starting to get chilly, and a shiver runs through Zayn when she takes a swig of water, the cold liquid sliding down her throat. "So," she says after she's settled her glass on the ground next to her and taken a crumpled fag out of her back pocket. She'll need it, she'd wager. 

"The concert was nice," Liam says, not quite looking at her. "You've gotten better."

"Thanks," Zayn says quietly. 

There's a beat of silence again, and Zayn feels a pang of guilt in her stomach – she knows Sonoko wouldn't mind it, her talking to Liam like that, especially after they've got so many unresolved things between them – Sonoko is all about honesty –, but she can't help but feel like she's cheating. 

Liam's still looking right ahead, even though all that's before her is another wall, not much prettier than the one they're leaning against. She looks like she could use a fag, too, but she doesn't ask, and Zayn doesn't offer.

"I've broken up with Jessica," she blurts out after a while, out of the blue. 

The news jolts through Zayn like an electric shock. She drags on her cigarette harder than she intended and ends up coughing, bent over with her hands on her knees in that dark, vaguely threatening alley. For some reason, the thought makes her laugh. Liam turns to her, frowning. "Sorry," Zayn says, mid-cough or maybe -chuckle.

The silence stretches between them. She's broken up with Jessica, Zayn thinks – it runs in circles through her mind, a sort of mantra, each time eliciting more questions: why is she telling Zayn? Why now? Did she realize she's straight after all? Is she back in the closet? Does she want to get together? 

"I'm sorry," she says after a while, because that seems like the most acceptable thing to say to someone who's just told about their break-up, and because Zayn has no fucking idea what else she could say. 

"It's fine. It was amicable." Liam's voice sounds a bit hollow but not really sad, like when something you liked reaches a natural end – a grandparent dying, a pet, the sale of a childhood house. 

"Anyway," Liam says after a while, clearing her throat, "I just wanted to... you're my best friend. I just -"

Suddenly Zayn is worried, worried about what she's going to say – images flash in her mind and she remembers how it felt, being with Liam, the pain and the waiting and the suffering that comes with it, and she's sure, searingly _sure_ that she can't do it a second time. She's got to protect yourself, you know? She can't just keep serving herself up for disaster. That's what adulthood is all about, apparently. 

"I have a girlfriend," she says hurriedly. 

The silence that follows is definitely awkward. Liam looks at her, really _looks_ at her this time, and she never used to have a good poker face but now Zayn can't read her at all. Maybe it's just that time they've spent apart; maybe Zayn's grown unaccustomed to it, that's all. It's strangely reassuring, because that's one of the things that seemed impossible a few months ago, like stopping finding the tart sweetness of the inside of Liam's thighs the best taste in the world, and look – here she is. Still, it's pretty damn uncomfortable. 

"Okay," Liam says slowly. Zayn can't tell if she's disappointed or just surprised, or something entirely other. "I'm happy for you?" It's slightly questioning, and for some reason that makes Zayn smile. 

"Yeah," she says, taking a drag on her cigarette. It calms her a little – she hadn't realised she was so tense. "You should meet her some time. She's cool."

For some reason that's what does it, what breaks the ice. Liam smiles and says, "yeah, sure," and then the conversation just sort of flows, like it used to when there wasn't all this tension between them, and that was such a long time ago Zayn had almost forgotten how good it felt. To be friends. That's why she fell in love with Liam in the first place, how easy it is to be around her, how endearing she is, annoyingly straight-laced and adorable and funny and everything else she is, a wonderfully multi-faceted girl.

It's almost dawn when Zayn checks her cell. She blinks at it, wincing internally when she remembers that her classes tomorrow morning start at eight and there's no way she can miss them – she's been skipping way too much already, thanks to her friends' insistence that 'it's their last year' (it's not) and 'they're geniuses anyway' (not true either, at least not for the majority of them – Louise is actually frighteningly smart when it comes to academics). 

"I should go," she says, peeling herself off the wall. She cracks her back, thumbs digging into the small of her back.

"Sure, of course," Liam says, standing up too. Her traits tighten when she glances down at her watch. "I'm so sorry, I hadn't realised -"

"It's fine, Li," Zayn says placatingly, the nickname rolling off her tongue as easily as if the last time she'd sad ot was yesterday. She tenses up, but Liam doesn't say anything, doesn't even seem to notice. 

They hover a bit before leaving. Eventually Zayn starts walking towards her flat, and Liam the other way – when Liam calls her back, her voice low as though she was hoping Zayn wouldn't hear her. 

Zayn turns around. "Yeah?"

Liam ducks her head. "I'm glad we can be friends again," she says quietly. Zayn can't see her eyes, but she could swear they're shining in the soft darkness. 

"We never stopped," she answers, and then she walks away. 

*

Going back to being friends with Liam is easy enough; less easy than last time, of course, but at least this time it doesn't also involve falling back head-over-heels in love with her, so that's probably for the best. Zayn tells Sonoko about it the next time they see each other. She's a little nervous about what Sonoko will say – to be honest, she doesn't know how she'd react if Sonoko told her she's not comfortable with it – but she's as cool and understanding as usual. She pecks Zayn's lips, her smile easy, and says, "Good for you. I'm glad. You should introduce us some time." Zayn honestly doesn't know what she did to deserve a girl like that, but she'd do it again a thousand times over, that much she's sure of.

Liam and her hang out a few times a week, sometimes to study, sometimes just to hang out. The group aren't as eager to accept her into their ranks again – they all remember how wrecked Zayn was after they broke up, Louise tells Zayn one night, a deep wrinkle barring her forehead, and once again Zayn is swept over by the force of her affection for her, for all of them – but eventually they come around. They're not as trusting as they used to be, but Liam accepts it with grace, sticks by Zayn's side most of the time. 

They find their old rituals easily enough: arguing over music, Liam making Zayn tea with a spoonful of honey and Zayn disturbing Liam while she tries to do her homework. The only things that are different from before are the fact that they don't talk about relationships – in fact, Zayn doesn't even know how it ended with Jessica, or if Liam has someone new in her life – and the touching. They used to touch a lot, innocent touches when they were kids, hips, shoulders and legs, tickles, caresses; and then when they started fucking, not-so-innocent – kisses and licks and brushes accompanied with heavy, loaded glances. There's none of that now. In fact, Liam avoids touching Zayn almost religiously, and Zayn is glad to accommodate her. Even when they sit on the couch they maintain a respectable distance, and when their knees happen to bump they glance at each other guiltily before shifting apart again. 

Sonoko and Liam meet. It's awkward for the first three seconds, but after that Sonoko works her magic and soon they're sharing drinks and tittering together like they've known each other all their life. Zayn can't help but feel a pang of something – envy, jealously, she's not really that keen on investigating it – but she buries it deep down and resolves not to think about it. It's great that they like each other, it really is.

All of this is great, actually. Zayn went from being a lovelorn loser with a band that was going nowhere to a girl with a beautiful, sexy girlfriend, a best friend and a possible record deal. What is there left to wish for? Nick and Caroline, the crazy bastards, are already trying to goad them all into agreeing to a trip in Greece for spring break, and to be honest Zayn can already see them all there, getting drunk off cheap vodka and eating cherries on the grass at night, snogging each other until their mouths are red and they can't remember their names. She doesn't think she's felt better in her life.

So she should enjoy it. Enjoy it, drink it to the last drop, _carpe diem_ and all that shite. She should take Louise's advice and stop worrying all the time, just lean back and enjoy the ride instead of preparing the next catastrophe. She's trying. 

*

It was bound to happen, really. Zayn could pretend like it wasn't, but it was, and if she were smarter or less selfish she would have refused that first drink to begin with. 

As it is, it went something like this: "Liam, you're drunk."

She'd just opened her door at two in the morning and she was, yes, a little pissed off, but also she was concerned and a little impressed because Liam never, _never_ gets drunk.

"I am," Liam nodded drunkenly. "Is Sonoko there?"

"No," Zayn said. Which was true: Sonoko had come down with a bad case of flu, and after bringing her kitchen soup and a stack of books and CDs she wanted earlier in the day, they'd decided it was probably better if Zayn went home alone that night, given how viruses generally tended to lay her down for three months whenever she caught one. Why would she lie, anyway? 

Liam trained her puppy-eyes on Zayn. Zayn thought about reminding her that they'd been friends – on and off, but still – for about ten years now, but she gave it up in favour of asking, "Liam, why are you drunk? Did something happen?"

Liam frowned. It was much too ridiculous to be cute, and yet. "No," she slurred. "Nothing happened. I just -" she hiccoughed, "got a bad mark at that econ test I told you about, you know the one," (Zayn did not, in fact, know the one, but nodded all the same), "and I went to _The Bean_ , and then there was that girl, she kept buying me drinks, but it turned out she was," she hiccoughed again, "straight and she only wanted to talk about her ex, and now," she did a lazy twirl and almost ended up on her arse on Zayn's doorstep, "I'm here. _Voila_. Me. _Soy_..." she frowned, appeared to be searching for the Spanish word, then gave up, "here-a."

Zayn sighed. She rubbed her forehead. "Come in," she said. It's not like she hadn't been that friend that shows up on your doorstep completely hammered once or twice or twenty times after all; it was probably like, her karmic duty to let Liam in now. Besides, she was a little worried what she'd do if Zayn let her roam around the city like this at night. 

Instead of slumping on the sofa as soon as she came in like Zayn expected, Liam made a beeline for the kitchen and dug into one of the highest cupboards. She'd only been in here a few times, but she knew Zayn liked to keep her alcohol as high as possible, a habit she'd inherited from her mother in a household where there were a lot of kids, most of them all too eager to go digging into whatever was at their level. 

"Shots!" she yelled joyously as she took the tequila out of the cupboard and dug into another one for shot glasses. She settled for normal, tall ones when she couldn't find them – for a good reason, since Zayn didn't actually _own_ any. Don't tempt the devil, and all that shite – besides, alcohol had gotten her into trouble more times than she dared to count. 

"Maybe it's not such a good idea," Zayn said cautiously when Liam came back into the living-room bearing glasses and bottle, but Liam paid her no attention and shoved a glass in her hands. 

"Just one," she said, her eyes glinting, and okay, either Zayn had missed something or Liam had seriously upgraded her drinking experience since the last time they'd gotten drunk together. It looked good on her, in a way – seeing her happy, her shoulders relaxed and her hair down, flowing on her shoulders; on the other hand it was also a little terrifying, because Liam was nothing if not stubborn and that and alcohol never made a good mix. 

"Just one," Zayn agreed. It couldn't hurt, could it? She'd drink one of those shots to placate Liam, then she'd make her coffee, give her a glass of water and a blanket and set her up on the couch. If she was lucky she might even make it to Modernist Poetry tomorrow morning. 

She should definitely have seen it coming. Her track record with alcohol wasn't exactly pristine, this was Liam, she was tired, and – yeah. Within the hour they were both drunk off their arses, even though, thank god, Liam had slowed down a little. By four the sun was already peeking murder-red at the window and Liam was talking.

In retrospect, that was a conversation Zayn would have much preferred to have while sober. 

"I never told you why I broke up with Jessica," Liam said from where she was sprawled over the rug, looking fixedly at the ceiling, her face split in a wide, nonsensical grin. 

"Ugh," groaned Zayn. 

Liam seemed to take it for the encouragement it very much wasn't. "She was nice," she said wonderingly. "You know. Like, supportive and stuff. She helped me..." Her voice trailed off. "She helped me tell my parents and all that stuff. Shit. Whatever. And she was sweet and there was all that stuff, like before. The _feelings_ , I mean," she intoned, twisting her head to look at Zayn as though she was explaining some concept Zayn had never heard of, but Zayn was too drunk to be offended.

"But the sex," she said after, almost pouting, her voice low and disappointed, and Zayn couldn't help but choke on her shot glass. Her teeth clanged against the rim; she swore loudly. 

Liam didn't seem to notice, or if she did, she completely ignored it. "The sex wasn't like it was with you at all," she continued. "I'd been hoping... I'd been hoping it would, you know, evolve. But it didn't. She was just so _gentle_ and _loving_ -" this time, woken up from her stupor by the pain, Zayn was slightly offended, "and I didn't come half the time, I had to fake it, it was embarrassing. So we just – you know. Split."

She fell silent. She didn't seem to be waiting for Zayn to say something, which was a good thing, because Zayn's head was spinning and her throat was dry and her cunt was throbbing and she felt guilty as fuck for just how turned on right now. So what, her ex-slash-best-friend thought that the sex they'd had while she was in the closet was hot. Big deal. 

She cleared her throat. The noise rung in the silence. Liam hauled herself up on her elbows, crawled up, sat cross-legged on the rug. Her eyes were dark. She didn't look drunk, exactly, but she was – she was never brazen like that, at least she never had with Zayn, except one or two times that Zayn had preferred to forget, for her own sake. And now – 

Now, well. Now she was _looking_. Not asking, not leaning in, not doing anything. Just looking.

Zayn cursed herself internally. She thought about slapping her cheeks, but she felt paralysed, rooted to the spot with tension, her hands tied. She felt painfully aware of how she was standing, leaning ever so slightly forward, her legs splayed open, her shot glass forgotten by her side on the couch, probably in the process of leaving a stain Zayn would never be able to get out, and yet she couldn't bring herself to give even half a fuck, because Liam was looking. Her eyes were big and black and she didn't blink and fuck, Zayn would feel so guilty afterwards but she was drunk and her self-control wasn't the best even when she was sober and this was _Liam_ , Liam with whom she'd made water bombs in the city pool when they were eleven, Liam who used to be so afraid, Liam, _her_ Liam –

"Come here," Zayn croaked out. 

Liam didn't hesitate. She didn't ask why, if they should, really. She didn't say anything. She just stood up, much too gracefully for someone who was as drunk as she was, barely helping herself with her hands (Zayn remembered, fleetingly, that she used to be in the gymnastics team in high school and that she'd led her team to nationals). She kneeled between Zayn's legs. Her face was unreadable. She didn't touch, her arms along her sides, fingers against the rug. She just stood there, as though saying, _your move_. 

_Your move_ , Zayn thought. _No_ , my _move_. When was the last time she'd been the one in control, when it came to the two of them? She'd never been in control. 

She reached a hand. She hadn't realised she was trembling, but now she could see she was, and she tried to quash it but couldn't, her fingers vibrating slightly in the air as they came nearer and nearer to Liam's cheek. Liam still didn't blink. How could she not blink for so long? She must've, at some point when Zayn wasn't looking. But Zayn had been looking all along. 

"Liam," she said, the syllables alien in her throat, garbled. She immediately wished she could take it back, but Liam didn't react, didn't say anything back, didn't give any sign that she'd, in fact, heard.

Zayn slowly peeled her back off the sofa. She leaned forward. Her lips were stinging and hot, her face was red, she could feel it, with the combination of sweat and alcohol. She could feel hairs sticking to the nape of her neck. Her mind was hazy. Had she wanted to think about the consequences – she didn't –, she wouldn't have been able to. 

When Zayn came close enough, her legs still splayed around Liam's shoulders but her bust now close, absurdly close – and if she leaned forward just a little more they would be forehead to forehead, nose to nose, lips – she brushed her thumb against the edge of Liam's jaw, then her cheekbone. This time Liam's eyelashes fluttered, but she still didn't say anything. The air was heavy; Zayn's heart was hammering in her chest and everything in her was pulsing, as though her heartbeat had propagated through her blood and turned her into a giant drum. 

Several sentences started whirling through Zayn's mind. _I love you. What are you doing. I can't_. If Liam opened her mouth and said something, anything, she would choose one of those three and just run with it, roll with the punches. But Liam didn't open her mouth. She didn't say anything. She just kept looking, her eyes staring a hole through Zayn's lips, the back of her throat, and coming back on the other side, probably picking one or two organs on the way and pinning them on the wall behind her. 

So Zayn did the only other thing she could think of. She realised just how horrible an idea it was as soon as she did it, how loaded with consequences, but she did it anyway. Her self-destructive tendencies weren't really a secret, she thought with surprising lucidity as she pushed her lips against Liam's and coaxed her mouth open. Liam went willingly, more eager than Zayn had anticipated; she took control of the kiss and pushed her tongue into Zayn's mouth, heavy with alcohol and purpose.

They kissed for what felt like a few centuries; Zayn couldn't remember ever having kissed Liam – ever having _been kissed_ by Liam – with so much heat, so much pent-up frustration and emotion and whatever the fuck else was in that kiss; yet the first kiss they'd shared was the result of ten years of sexual tension. She couldn't breathe. She wouldn't breathe. She imagined, fleetingly but with searing intensity, spending her whole life breathing nothing else than Liam's smell, her name, her kisses. For a moment she felt like she would choke. 

Eventually Liam pulled away. Her mouth was red, and just from looking at it Zayn knew it must be stinging, like hers, the way it does when someone kisses you thoroughly and well. Their hands were still at their sides. They hadn't touched each other, Zayn realised blankly; her body felt like it was on fire, but that was nothing exceedingly new – touching Liam had felt like that before. 

For a second she waited, waited for Liam to say something, to apologise, to run away. She thought she herself might say something, accuse or confess – if there was even anything left to confess –, or maybe just fall back into the sofa and take her head into her hands. Movement seemed necessary for the situation to make sense, any kind of sense really, but Liam didn't move and so neither did Zayn, as though her heavy immobility was somehow contagious. 

After a while, feeling sufficiently stable to stand up without immediately crashing down nose-first into the rug, she stood up, although with considerably less grace than Liam had, and wobbled to her bedroom, diving into the mattress and falling almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

*

The first thought to cross Zayn's mind when she wakes up is, _fucking hangover_. The second, close by, is, _fuck, I didn't set my alarm_. And the third isn't as much a thought as a memory of the night before, and Zayn takes her head in her hands and says, heartily, "Shit fuck." It fits the situation. 

She sits up in her – still unmade – bed and runs her hands through her hair, messing it up even further. It was all a dream, she tries to convince herself in what is probably the most pathetic attempt know to man, because it's not like she _doesn't_ know that it wasn't actually a dream and that she's in unbelievable shit.

She looks down at herself, then at the clock, then back at herself. Okay, so: she missed half the day's classes, she looks like a fucking mess, and her best friend, who kissed her last night after getting spectacularly drunk, is probably still passed out on her sofa. But everything is fine. Breathe, Zayn. Breathe deep. Everything's gonna be okay. 

The mental reassurance thing works about as well as it usually does, which is not at all, but eventually Zayn works up the courage to take a quick shower, change, gobble down an aspirin or three and peek into the living-room. Yep, said best friend is still there, still passed out, and if Zayn's memory serves her well – or rather, the blurry remnants there is of it – they still shared a kiss that was both the weirdest and hottest moment of Zayn's life, except for that threesome she had with those Swedish twins into bondage and exotic sex toys. 

As strange as it sounds, the threesome was actually much less complicated than this promises to be. God, Zayn feels like taking another aspirin just thinking about it. 

She shakes Liam's shoulder lightly. Liam, who was always a light sleeper, jolts. "Sorry," Zayn whispers, wincing a little.

Liam's face goes through a range of emotions when she sees Zayn; most of them pass too quickly for Zayn to recognise, but she doesn't miss the alarm and the shame. "Oh god," she starts, half-covering her mouth with her hand, "Zayn, I -"

"We can talk about it later," Zayn says, more firmly than she though herself capable of with this much alcohol left in her system. "Coffee?"

Liam's face softens; her level of agitation seems to drop a few notches. "Yes, please," she breathes. Zayn realises she's rubbing Liam's shoulder and snatches her hand away as fast as she can; Liam's head shoots up and they share a quick, guilty glance. Great. This is going to be great.

Zayn gives Liam a towel and spare clothes so she can take a shower, grabs her phone and heads into the kitchen to make coffee. There are a few texts, mostly from Louise and Niall, asking why she's not in class – they don't have classes in common but they usually meet up during break, and besides, they all know each other's schedules –; and a missed call with a voicemail from Sonoko. Zayn stares at the blinking icon for a while, trying to decide whether or not to press it, but she's an adult, she's supposed to deal with things like that now; she presses her thumb right on the icon and raises the phone to her ear. 

Sonoko's warm, coloured voice slides into her ear. "Hey," she's saying. "Just wanted to say I'm feeling better, thanks to your soup." Her laugh twinkles – Zayn can't help a physical wince. "Anyway, come over later if you want? We can watch a movie and make out or something. Call me. Love you."

The endearment that always felt so familiar, almost inconsequential, now sounds loaded and falls into Zayn's ear like a pound of lead. How could she not see this coming? Seriously. She's such an idiot, and an unfaithful idiot at that. 

She sets the phone on the table, but doesn't have time to admonish herself because Liam slides into the kitchen, her hair wet but looking a bit more refreshed. Thank god she didn't show up wearing only a towel, Zayn isn't sure what she would have done. Not something very commendable, she supposes – though she'd hazard sober Liam isn't as adventurous as when she's under the influence.

There's a moment of silence where they just stare at each other across the room and it feels like all the awkwardness in the world has somehow left its previous owners and jammed itself between them.

Liam clears her throat. "Hi," she says, quite lamely, in Zayn's opinion. 

Zayn realises she hasn't actually started the coffee she promised. She busies herself with that for a second, and then, when there's nothing left to do, she sits at the table with Liam. Liam, who is obviously holding back from gnawing at her nails like her mother told her a thousand times not to. Liam, who – Zayn isn't going to forget it anytime soon – knelt between Zayn's knees yesterday night and kissed Zayn like Zayn has never, ever been kissed. 

"So," Zayn says. "I guess we should talk about it."

Look at her, being a proper adult. Her mother would be proud.

Liam latches onto it like Zayn just threw her a bone. "I am so sorry," she intones. "I swear I didn't – it's just, I was drunk and you know me, I never get drunk, I just -"

"We're both to blame," Zayn says. Funny, how she can never let Liam blame herself when it comes to the two of them. "I shouldn't have encouraged you."

They lapse into silence, because then, of course, comes the inevitable question – why? Alcohol is a fine excuse, but then there's the things Liam said, and the way she said them, her voice dark and heavy and full of things Zayn didn't even know were _there_ , much less unearthed – 

"We're still friends, right?" Liam is asking, eager, and Zayn can read it in her face: _I don't want us to not be friends again_ , and for a second, a tiny second, it feels selfish and unacceptable and Zayn wants to throw her out the door and tell her, _stop messing with my heart, aren't you sick of that game already_. But she won't. She doesn't, because she's over all that, and this – yesterday – was just alcohol-fuelled machine, this machine that makes you regret things you didn't get to have and wish the dog you had when you were six were still alive. It doesn't mean anything. 

"Of course we're still friends."

The coffee stops dripping into the percolator, and Zayn stands up to retrieve the pot, pours them each a generous mug. They definitely need it, now more than ever. But it's going to be okay, Zayn tells herself – in fact she's already moved on to the next phase, the one where she tells Sonoko about this because they don't keep secrets, ever, and this is a make-or-break kind of secret. She won't dwell on it. It was a mistake, a one-time thing, or rather, a several-times thing but they were all misguided and Zayn knows better now. 

When she looks at Liam she looks like she might want to say something more, something important, but then she ducks her head and takes a sip of scalding coffee, giving a helpless little yelp when it touches her tongue. 

Zayn rolls her eyes. "It's hot," she drawls, smug. 

Liam's shoulders relax, she looks relieved. "Sure," she laughs. 

*

That day is definitely a strange day. It's not a _bad_ day, despite how it started, but it's still a strange, ominous for some reason. Zayn has trouble thinking about anything else than Liam's face just before she took that sip of coffee and Sonoko's reaction when she'll tell her. She imagines a few things: rage, acceptance, disappointment. She imagines Sonoko screaming and throwing things, but that feels so ridiculous she grins at herself, quickly, before reminding herself to look duly sour. She's an adulteress, for god's sake. She should look like something right out of _The Scarlet Letter_. 

She and Liam went their separate ways as soon as they finished their coffee. They agreed to text each other, and they will, Zayn knows they will: Liam holds their renewed friendship in high enough esteem not to let them drop out of contact just because of a misguided kiss. Zayn ate a muffin at _The Bean_ , chatted with Sheila for a while, then managed to attend her later classes. She texted everyone back, including Sonoko, telling her she'd be around tonight. 

And now she's just – waiting. She's in painting but she's not actually painting anything. Since the beginning of the year she's not been doing as well as she used to, and she can see that Mr Janoskian is a bit disappointed, but honestly Zayn can do without the constant praise if she can also avoid the heartbreak that goes with it. So she's fine with still-lifes and portraits of eccentric-looking women that always end up a cross between Sonoko, Liam and the unnamed female ideal that's been floating in Zayn's head since she was twelve and raging with hormones. 

When the clock strikes five, she slinks out the door with the rest of the students. She doesn't hurry, even stops at the little basin to wash the paint out of her hands. She answers a question Quentin, the new transfer from France, asks her about the homework, and after that she walks to Sonoko's slowly, leisurely. She keeps turning possible scenarios over in her mind but can't seem to settle on any of them, and for some reason she isn't anxious like she ought to be; instead she feels a sort of supernatural calm, resignation maybe. 

Sonoko's roommate, Jan, a squeaky-clean plump blonde girl who studies accountancy, opens the door for her. She had a little trouble getting used to Zayn at first, more because of the tattoos and general punk-ish look than because of the whole lesbian thing, but she got there soon enough. Now Sonoko keeps saying that she's got a crush on Zayn; she seems to find it especially funny. 

"Hey, Zayn," says Jan, her cheeks colouring a little as if to prove Sonoko's point. 

Sonoko comes up behind her and strides up to Zayn to peck her on the lips. Zayn's a little taken by surprise, but she doesn't show it. 

"Cool down, Jan," Sonoko smirks, more for show than anything else, "she's mine."

Jan looks terribly embarrassed for a second, then gives an awkward little wave and disappears into her room. Sonoko leans against Zayn's chest. "It's so funny when she does that," she laughs. She turns back to Zayn, slipping her arms around Zayn's neck. "Hey," she says, her voice lower. "Long time no see." she has to rise on her tiptoes to kiss Zayn – Zayn's wearing heels –; it's slow and deep and Zayn pushes into it the slightest bit, enjoys it with a sort of belated alarm. 

Eventually Sonoko draws away and licks her lips playfully. She takes Zayn's hand and leads her to her room. They sit on the bed; Sonoko looks like she might climb on Zayn's lap and start kissing her again, but she must see something on Zayn's face, because she sits at her desk chair and crosses her arms along the back, her eyes gentle. "What's up?" she asks softly. 

For all the possible versions of this she spun in her head, Zayn didn't imagine once she'd open her mouth and have nothing come out; but that's what happens.

Sonoko tilts her head. She doesn't look exactly worried; concerned, maybe. "Did something happen?" her voice is the same it ever is, _take your time, you can tell me if you want_ , and not for the first time Zayn imagines this lasting years, decades maybe, Sonoko giving her the same look at twenty-five, thirty, forty – it's absurdly easy to picture. 

"Yes," Zayn says when she gets out of her daydream. "Something happened."

"Oh," Sonoko says, her lips forming a small, ridiculously kissable circle. She doesn't look sick at all anymore, maybe just a little paler than usual.

"Liam came over last night." As soon as she says it, Zayn realises how bad a lead-on that is, how easily it can be misconstrued. But if Sonoko jumps to conclusions, she doesn't show it, only waits for Zayn to continue. Zayn's throat feels dry; even though it's a completely different situation, it reminds her of the night before, the terrible in-between between leaning forward, her cheeks hot and her lips aching, and actually touching Liam's lips with her own. "She was drunk. We -" she rubs her forehead. "We talked." No, that's not what happened. Liam talked. "Liam talked."

"Talked about what?" Sonoko asks. 

Zayn's head shoots up; Sonoko always asks questions she doesn't expect. "Uh," she flounders. "Her break-up with Jessica – you know, the girl I told you about."

Sonoko nods. 

"Anyway," Zayn continues, starting to feel really uncomfortable, "she said some things, and I'd – you know how I am with alcohol." She gives Sonoko a look she suspects is pleading, wanting her to say something, interrupt, be angry; but Sonoko doesn't even tell her to cut to the chase, only stands up a little bit straighter, her face kind and waiting. "And, so, I was drunk, and – we kissed."

There – you got it out. It feels good, in a way, in the one way that doesn't feel absolutely fucking miserable; Zayn barely remembers that that's not the end of the story. "But nothing more happened, I swear. I went to sleep, and we talked this morning -" 

_Nothing more happened_. Panic hits her, messy. Do you think she's going to believe you? Liam slept at your place, for god's sake. How's that for incriminating? But Sonoko still isn't saying anything. What is it with people not saying anything lately? That never ends well for Zayn. She swallows. "We talked this morning, and we agreed – it was a mistake. It was just, it was nothing. You know, the force of habit, or melancholy, but not – I love you, that's all I'm trying to say." Now that sounds strange. She'd never said it before, had she? But now that she has it strikes her that maybe that wasn't the best placement for a first time. Oh well. "I love you, and I'm sorry."

And that's all. That's all she has in her, apparently, because she just stops talking and she – well, she sits there with her hands in her lap and she probably looks like a freaking moron but she doesn't care, she doesn't care at all. She looks at Sonoko, Sonoko – Sonoko has her head down. Her eyes are – is she crying? She can't be crying. There's no – Sonoko doesn't cry. 

"Are you crying? Don't cry." She always thought it was so selfish to ask people not to cry. Let them cry it they want to cry, for Christ's sake, she used to snap. It doesn't matter if it makes you uncomfortable. And now here she is, and -

"Sorry," Sonoko says, which, in turn, makes Zayn feels like that much more of an asshole, because really, Zayn, making your girlfriend cry and then making her apologise for crying? Classy. 

Zayn crawls on the ground. Her tights are going to be ruined, but she doesn't really care. She takes Sonoko's hands, lifts her head to look at her. "Babe. I – I'm so sorry."

"I know," Sonoko sniffles. She's never looked so young. She always seems so mature and composed, it's easy to forget that she's only nineteen. Zayn feels like an utter and complete asshole. 

It lasts a few minutes, Zayn just kneeling there, holding Sonoko's hand and Sonoko looking down, her tears falling in big fat drops on their joined hands. Zayn is pretty certain she has never felt as shitty in her life.

Eventually Sonoko sniffles one more time and gently disengages their hands. She wipes the tears from her eyes, grabs a tissue on her desk and blows her nose. When she's done she looks like she did yesterday – ill. Her nose is red. She gives a brave smile; Zayn hates herself for putting it there. 

"So," Sonoko says after a while, "what does that mean? Do you still have feelings for her?"

A wave of affection crashes in Zayn's chest. She's always so composed, so gentle – she deserves someone so much better, and yet here Zayn is, holding onto her like a lifeline while she messes everything up as usual. "I'm always going to have feelings for her," she says as gently as possible, and because she's a coward she doesn't look up to see the wince she knows is there, pinching Sonoko's face. "She was my best friend for ten years, and I was in love with her for half as much. But I'm with you now. I swear –" her voice wavers. "I swear I'm with you. This was a mistake. Liam is my friend. If you don't want -" she lets her sentence trail. She doesn't actually know what to say here. If you don't want me to see her again, I won't? Could she do that? Probably not. Faced with an ultimatum, she couldn't choose. 

"I'm not going to make you choose," Sonoko says, her eyes almost transparent, glass thoroughly cleaned by an onslaught of rain. 

"Thank you," Zayn breathes. Yes, it makes her weak, but she doesn't care. She's relieved. She's so relieved. "So... do you forgive me?"

Sonoko tips her head back, rubs her palm between her eyebrows. "I don't know," she says, and she sounds more confused than Zayn has ever heard her sound, which hurts, once again. She's too good to mingle in those kind of emotional fuck-ups, and yet... Zayn knows that if she could come back in time she wouldn't do anything differently, wouldn't spare her the pain because she's too selfish, because she loves her – _loves_ her – too much. 

"I'm not sure -" Sonoko starts. She takes in a rushed breath. "I'm not sure you're not in denial. I know you love me," she looks down at Zayn and smiles, "and I love you too, but you and Liam – it's something else, right?" Her voice is wistful. Zayn hates it. 

"No," Zayn says, urgent. "Maybe, but it broke me, and it's not what I want anymore. I swear, babe. I love you."

 _I've never begged like this for anyone_ , Zayn realises, and it hits her deep in the stomach, with a strange sort of poignancy. _I've never begged at all._

Sonoko rests her forehead on the back of the chair. For a few minutes she breathes deeply, her breaths sometimes interrupted by deep-seated, muffled sobs, and each of them breaks Zayn's heart but she doesn't do anything, doesn't say anything because there's nothing to say. Then Sonoko looks up, throws her head back as though she could make the tears sink back into her tear-ducts, sighs once, twice. 

"Okay," she says. 

*

Everything isn't exactly easy after that. They don't have sex that night, and every time Zayn tries to initiate it during the week that follows Sonoko begs off, her face shut off. She apologises, of course, and she still comes out with the gang and tries to drink Niall under the table – which no one, not even Louise who is a remarkably good drinker ("But not Irish," Niall drawls), can do –, laughs with Liam, of all people, and strikes ridiculous poses for Ian. But with Zayn she's just not as intimate as she used to be; doesn't lean into her embraces or kiss wholly back when Zayn kisses her. It hurts. Zayn isn't going to pretend it doesn't. But she takes it because she deserves it, it's her fault and she knows that, she _knows_ that. It'll go back to normal one day. 

What also hurts but is less comprehensible is the way _Liam_ behaves with her. Turns out Zayn wasn't entirely right when she assumed Liam wouldn't want to lose their newfound friendship; she doesn't, but she also doesn't exactly seeks out Zayn's company either. Unless Zayn specifically texts her to ask for them to meet up, the only time they see each other is at gigs or at gang outings. Zayn can't get at the bottom of this one. She could try, sure, but on the other hand having in-depth conversation with Liam maybe isn't the best course of action when her girlfriend is obviously struggling to trust her again. So it just... simmers. It hangs in a sort of limbo, and Zayn is there, watching it happen, not really knowing what to do about it. 

It's Aiden, of all people, who finally asks her what's going on. Louise tried a few times, but Zayn didn't tell her, for a reason that escapes her – she's never kept a secret from Louise since she was fifteen.

So – Aiden. She comes up to Zayn one time they're all hanging out at Zayn's flat, smoking and half-watching some poorly-acted movie just because it's got Natalie Portman in it. Zayn is in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge to see if she's actually got something else than wine and mini sausages to eat, when Aiden leans against the doorjamb. 

"What's going on with you?" she asks, quiet and to the point. Aiden.

Zayn almost bangs her head against the fridge door when she startles. "Shit, Aiden –" she sobers up when she ingests the question. "Nothing."

Aiden raises a silent eyebrow. 

"It's just -" Zayn searches for something to occupy her hands, and settles on a tea towel that she starts wringing nervously. She probably looks ridiculous, but Aiden's seen her tripping on LSD, so it's not likely she cares. "Liam."

Aiden doesn't say anything. It's usually her preferred conversation technique. 

And damn her, it works. "We -" god, the teal towel is going to end up completely deformed. "She – we kissed, the other day. She was hammered. I told Sonoko."

Aiden looks highly unimpressed by Zayn, but that's fine. Zayn is very unimpressed by herself right now. "Ah," says Aiden. "She does look sad."

Those monosyllabic types do have a certain gravitas, Zayn thinks, without heat. "Yeah," she says in a sigh. "Liam's pissed at me too. I don't know why."

"Maybe because she's in love with you, you fucktard."

Zayn should've seen Niall coming, but she was too wrapped up in her own drama, which, story of her life. Niall levels her a placidly exasperated look and pushes her hip. "Shove off. D'ya have beer?"

Zayn feels a little dumbstruck. Aiden is smirking. Niall is now the one rummaging through the fridge. The tea towel is definitely ruined. "I don't think so," Zayn says when she feels like her jaw is back to running order. 

"Bugger," says Niall. She grabs the bottle of red wine, opens it and downs about half its contents down in one gulp. If Zayn weren't so completely flabbergasted, she would probably be impressed.

Niall is halfway through the door again, bottle still in hand, when Zayn comes to her senses. "Wait," she says. "What?"

Niall rolls her eyes. "God, you're slow. I don't even know why you've got that many chicks falling over themselves for your cunt, honestly."

Zayn ignores the insult. "What?" she repeats dumbly. 

Aiden, who is still leaning by the door and now looking amused as well as unimpressed, taps her fingers against her arm. "Liam's in love with you," she says with no inflection whatsoever. 

"No," Zayn says reflexively. At the same time, the thought that that might actually be true creeps into her mind. "Fuck."

"Here we go," says Niall with a smug smile. Zayn thinks about reminding her how much time it took her to actually get with Josh, but then decides against it. She's still kinda touchy about that.

Zayn turns to Aiden. "What do I do?" she realises as she says it that Aiden might not, in fact, be the best person to ask about that. "Who am I kidding," she groans. "You're in a fucked-up polyamorous relationship with your adoring boyfriend and the biggest douchebag on earth, or at least greater London. I shouldn't even be _talking_ to you. I might catch relationship herpes or something." Okay, so her voice might be closer to a whine by the end of that. 

Aiden does not look in the least insulted. In fact, she looks kind of proud, which, yeah, fucked-up. "Fetch me Louise," says Zayn dramatically. 

Aiden snorts. It should look undignified, but of course, since it's, well, _her_ , it doesn't. She slips out of the room and for a long, torturous two minutes Zayn is left there with no wine and no nothing except that sentence. _Maybe because she's in love with you._

And, see, the thing with Zayn is, the thing with Zayn is, she doesn't think that, because going down that road never ends well. It's been a long time since Zayn's even dared say the full sentence in her mind – _she loves me_ – and it does not feel good, because it isn't true. Because even if it's true... even if it's true, well, it's too fucking late, and it doesn't bring anything good, and Liam had her chance, and she broke Zayn's heart over and over until it was nothing but a bloody mess and then she stomped on it and just – no. This is not a thought Zayn has. _She loves me_. The hope, the disillusion, the craving, the aching, she's through with all that. She's over it, she's got someone she loves, who loves her back, who will love her back as soon as she's forgiven her, but it will happen because they'll work on it like fucking adults instead of just hitting each other in the dark, blindly and meanly and like they're Romeo and fucking Juliet. Zayn doesn't want to be one half of those couples that end dead at the end of the story. No way. No fucking way.

"Okay," says Louise when she barrels into the kitchen, Harry in tow. "What's going on?" God, that must look so inconspicuous from the living-room. It's like she's running a drug ring in her kitchen. Her life is a big cosmic joke, Zayn's pretty sure of that by now.

"Apparently Liam is in love with me," Zayn says before she can think better of it. 

Harry rolls her eyes, _I didn't come here for that_ , and decides to take her own go at the fridge. Louise is marginally more understanding. She pats Zayn's arm in that there-there-I'm-sorry-you're-so-stupid kind of way. "Um," she says. 

"Okay," Zayn sighs. "So everyone knows it except for me." Yes, she might sound petulant, but it's not like no one bothered to tell her that her best friend's in love with her, right? "Could someone inform me what my feelings are about that?"

Louise makes her old sage face. "Only you can answer that, sweetie," she says. Harry chokes on what looks suspiciously like a cookie from the box Zayn had hidden and then promptly forgotten the location of, and then tries to pass her laughter as a cough. 

"Now is not the time to go all Yoda on me, Louise."

"Help you, I cannot," Louise singes, a smile cracking through her impenetrable features. "Your heart decide must." 

God, Zayn needs better friends. 

"Har har," she says with something close to desperation. "Oh, by the way, Liam kissed me last week, when she was drunk."

There are two reactions to that: Harry, " _Liam? Drunk?_ " and the more reasonable "You what?" from Louise. 

"Yes," Zayn answers to both.

"Let me guess," Harry drawls, still stuffing herself with Zayn's prize cookies. "You told Sonoko and now she's angsting about it and Liam's angsting about it and you're angsting about it and everyone is miserable."

"Pretty much." That is, in fact, a disturbingly accurate description of the situation. 

"Mm," Louise says, which is of absolutely no help. "You're fucked."

Zayn rolls her eyes. "Thanks, Lou. I appreciate the support."

"You're welcome," Louise tells her with a shit-eating grin. "But seriously, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know! Why do you think I called you in here for?"

Louise points to Zayn. "Harry thought you'd gotten your head stuck in the freezer."

Zayn glares at Harry. Harry shrugs, grinning. Some help they are. 

"Seriously, though," Louise says, as though _Zayn_ was the one who'd been treating the whole situation as a joke, "what do you feel?"

"I don't _know_ what I fucking feel, Louise!" She's met with a complete silence. Harry is staring at her, stopped mid-chew. Okay, so maybe that was a little loud. "I mean, I don't know," she says, softer. "I – Liam broke my heart, you know that. And I love Sonoko. I told her – I told her I was with her. I _am_."

"But you're in love Liam," Louise completes, as though it were that simple.

"I -" _I've always been in love with Liam. I've never stopped being in love with Liam. I don't know if not loving her is possible for me._ "It's toxic, Lou. Every time I try, every time I fall into that – you know how it ends. And you know – you _know_ how happy Sonoko makes me. I don't want to fuck that up."

Louise looks at her; Zayn winces when she sees what's in that look. _Pity_. Great. That's just what she needs right now.

At their common surprise, Harry is the one to talk. "Maybe you should think about her," she says, her voice more cutting than Zayn's ever heard it. 

"Sorry?"

"Sonoko. Maybe you should think about her. She doesn't deserve someone who'll love her half-arsedly, Zayn," Harry says fiercely, and Zayn realises, with a pang of guilt, that she never pays enough attention and that Sonoko's links to the gang actually expand outside of her, just like Liam's do, that there are friendships in there and things she's just not part of. She can hear is crystal clear in Harry's voice. _Maybe it's time to think about someone other than yourself, Zayn. The world doesn't resolve around you._

"I don't want to hurt her," she says weakly. 

Harry's eyes are blank, cold honesty. Zayn promises herself never to underestimate her again. "You don't want to hurt _yourself_ ," she says, and even Louise looks over at her at that, shocked, because Harry is lazy and benevolent and flirty and hot but not _cold_ , not _hard_ , not ever. Except now. "But you'll have to. Because that's how the world works," and Zayn would kick up against that, say, _what do you know about the world and how it works_ , if she wasn't so right, "people get hurt. You hurt people. But you don't do it because you're afraid of hurting them, you do it because you're truthful. You do the best for your people, Zayn, fuck –"

And just like she's herself again. She looks down and there are tears and Zayn realises she never asked her what her life was like before she met Louise, before she met Zayn and all of them, really. She feels guilty. She feels so guilty. 

"You're right," she says slowly, softly. "I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry looks up – Louise's got an arm around her shoulders, and Harry's eyes are still burning, a soft, subdued fire but a fire all the same. "Don't apologise," she says. "Not to me. Do something." And again, Zayn can hear it: _People love you. Deserve it._

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Louise and Harry leave the kitchen. Zayn goes to the fridge on autopilot, but remembers halfway there that Niall took the wine. She sits at the kitchen table. She opens her hand, surprised to find the tea towel still between them, ripped to shreds.

*

Zayn would like to say that it all wraps up with a pretty little ribbon, but it doesn't. In fact, it happens in exactly the opposite way: messy, complicated and hurtful. Zayn knew there would be hurt, understood that, but still – still, she can't get used to it. So sue her. She doesn't like hurting people, and she doesn't like hurting. 

The thing is this: after that night Zayn goes home and sleeps and masturbates without really thinking about it. Her and Sonoko don't have sex for another week and then they do and it's mediocre and after that Zayn doesn't really try. Sonoko looks miserable most of the time and Zayn feels guilty, feels so fucking guilty about it she feels like puking most of the time. Sonoko isn't made to be miserable. She's a happy person. She shines and laughs and makes stupid puns and skips around like she belongs in a Disney movie. Now even the colours in her hair seems like they've faded a little. 

Everyone in the gang seems to think Zayn's to blame for Sonoko's state. She is, but it doesn't mean it's easy, watching Harry look at her with those wide betrayed eyes every time she opens her mouth. Liam winces when Zayn touches her. That's love? That's love. Well, love's fucked-up and love's a bitch and Zayn doesn't want it. But she does. That's the whole problem, isn't it? She wants love, she can't make up her mind and everyone's suffering because of that. 

Of course Louise stands by her, but it doesn't exactly mean she's okay with it either. She stands up by Zayn because she's her best friend and that's what best friends do, and they've been through more than that, really. Zayn hates seeing Harry resent Louise for standing by her, and she hates herself for not telling Louise that it's okay, that she can do without the support. The rest of the gang is silent, stony-faced in their disapproval of Zayn in general. Niall drinks and frowns and belches and insults her, and at least it's a little better because it's not _silence_. Anything but silence. 

Zayn... well. Zayn is waiting, that's the ugly truth. She's waiting for someone to take her by the shoulders and tell her, "Wake up, do something." Maybe Harry could. She's got it in her, that much is certain. But Zayn knows what Harry is thinking: I've done that already, now you've got to man up, you've got to do the fucking thing yourself, Zayner. 

Their gigs don't have the same energy. Next summer they're scheduled to record a demo but Nick is worried, even though he won't say it, that if they continue they won't be able to after all. And Zayn thinks, she thinks, _this is all on me_ , but it doesn't change anything. She just sits there and pretends like nothing is happening, and she feels like a bloody coward, sure, but at least she's not breaking anyone's heart, not yet. Is that laziness? Is that cowardice? Yes. But – no, there are no buts. Do something. Do something, she exhorts herself at night, when she goes to sleep in her cold bed and thinks about a tomorrow that will be the same, more waiting. Do something. 

She doesn't. 

And then, well, winter comes, and you can't do anything in winter. There are exams and the ground is cold and everyone stays home. There are half-arsed trips to the local ice rink but after a few times no one has the energy of the previous years so they just stay inside, pretending to be the tight, close-knit group they used to be, all because Zayn couldn't keep her heart in check. She can't even pin it on Liam now. She could very well turn her back on Liam completely and make things right with Sonoko. But she doesn't do that either. She does nothing. She drinks. She drinks too much. 

There's snow. Harry and Louise break up during a short spell in January. They have a show during that period, the adrenalin so strong it makes her teeth chatter. She drinks a bottle of vodka in ten minutes and corners Harry against the back of the van, right where it says One Direction in big block letters. 

"I need -" she says, choked out like one of their lyrics. 

Harry seems troubled for half a second. But Harry is different after performances. Her mascara is smudged and she goes darker, chain-smoking like a fucking chimney, the stage charisma still rolling off her in waves. 

She takes Zayn's chin between two fingers, knuckle brushing the jawbone. "Wha' do you need?" she slurs. 

Zayn doesn't answer – she's not sure she can –, just grabs the lapels of Harry's stupid suit vest and lets her kiss the buzzing out of her. 

They never talk about it, now. Zayn is pretty sure Louise knows about it and it's probably somewhere in one of their songs, but they don't mention it. It's the price for what they're doing. Music is supposed to hurt. 

The snow recedes. Louise and Harry are back together, but they're darker, less light than they used to be. Zayn feels like her sadness is a virus, and it is. It contaminates everyone around her. She should leave – she should leave, she should do a thousand fucking things she doesn't, and everything is going to slip through her fingers because she can't make a decision. 

So she does. One morning in April, she wakes up and she decides, _this can't go on_. It's taken her long enough, and she can't say she's ready, but she's as ready as she's ever going to be, that's becoming clear, so you know. She's doing it. Winging it, as they say. 

She goes to see Harry first. It probably only makes sense in her head, but it makes sense there, and that's enough for Zayn. Or at least, she pretends like it's enough. 

She pounds on her and Louise's door. It's early, eight a.m. in the morning. The neighbours are going to fucking hate her. No, forget that, she thinks when Harry opens the door in her pyjamas, glaring daggers, _Harry_ 's going to hate her. But it doesn't matter. She already does. 

"I'm so sorry," Zayn says. It feels good to say it. 

Harry blinks. "What?"

Zayn makes a gesture that's supposed to encompass everything, the two of them, the flat, the university, the world. "For all that," she says. "I'm sorry for all that mess. I shouldn't have let it trail on, and I shouldn't have dragged you into it. I hope you can forgive me." It feels formal, but Zayn's got no other words – besides, you know. Winging it and all that. 

Harry blinks again. "'course," she says after a while. Zayn hadn't realised she'd been holding her breath; she exhales loudly. "C'mere," Harry says. 

When they hug it's everything Zayn remembers, warm and comfortable and she thinks, _I could've lost that_ and _I'm a fucking idiot_. "Sorry about that kiss," she murmurs, muffled into Harry's neck. 

"No problemo," Harry says, her voice low and easy. "Don't do it again, is all. Best friend or not, Louise might rip your throat."

Zayn gives a breathless, croaky chuckle. "Yeah."

She hovers on their doorstep for another minute, right up until Harry gives her an irritated glance and says, "well, go now," and Zayn pretty much runs down the stairs, purpose renewed. "Well," she hears behind her in Louise's unmistakable drawl, "it was about time." Then the sounds of kissing. Zayn might be too happy about this; there are still so many things that could go wrong. 

Next stop is Sonoko's, of course. Zayn runs to there because she can't do anything else, and when she arrives at the dorm she stops, puts her palms on her knees and breathes, in, out, until her inspirations are regular. She knocks, half-hoping for Jan. 

No such luck. Sonoko opens the door. She looks tired, drained. When she sees Zayn her face doesn't lit up as it used to, and as has become usual guilt churns in Zayn's gut. _This is the end of that_ , she thinks today, though, and the weight lifts a little. 

"Hey," she says. "Can I come in?"

Something must be different in her voice, or in her face, because for a second Sonoko's face opens, she looks like the old Sonoko again, the nineteen-year-old girl with supernatural lungs who could get excited over every one and had no equal when it came to eating a girl out and laughing. 

She opens the door wide, but doesn't signal for Zayn to follow her. "Sure," she tosses over her shoulder.

They sit in the living-room. Jan isn't here, and Zayn spares a thought to hope she doesn't come back in the middle of their conversation. 

"First," Zayn says, diving into it right away before she loses her nerve, "I just want to apologize. I've been a jerk." Sonoko levels her a surprised, amused look. There's kindness in it, too. _Yes, you have_. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sonoko."

Sonoko snorts a little. "It's okay."

"So." and now comes the hard part. "You might have noticed -" No, that's not the right way to do it. Of course she's noticed. Everyone's noticed. Hell, Zayn's _father_ has noticed. "I know we haven't been -" What? What haven't they been, exactly? "like we used to, since -" Say it. "Since Liam and I kissed." 

Sonoko winces. She nods. 

"I fucked it up." Zayn is wringing her hands again. She can't help it. She hopes, absently, that they won't end up in shreds like the tea towel. "I know I did. I should've been more honest with you, and with myself. You don't deserve that."

The tears are always silent with Sonoko, they're traitorous. You've your head down and when you look up here they are, and Sonoko's irises are rain-translucent, and her cheeks a field during the monsoon. Maybe Zayn should've pre-gamed for this. She knew it was going to be hard.

"It's okay," Sonoko is saying quietly, and it breaks Zayn's heart all over again. Of course it's not okay. I hurt you.

"It's not okay. I hurt you. I wish -" and now she's the one getting choked up, "I wish I hadn't, but I did. And I can't take it back, but I'm sorry. You're my friend," here's that wince again, "I do love you, more than you can probably imagine. It's just -" How do you even say that? It's just that I can't love you enough? It's just that I love someone else, someone who has the power to destroy me? It's just that you can't close your fist and reduce my heart to ashes? It's just that I'm a fucking masochist? 

Even when she's in pain, Sonoko is the bigger person. Zayn would hate her for it if it wasn't so heart-wrenching. She puts a hand on Zayn's knee. "I know," she says. And then: "I've known for a while. I'm sorry I kept you to myself. I thought we could make it work."

"No!" Zayn's voice is fierce, but for some reason she's whispering. "No," she repeats, louder. Don't take the blame for this. I'm the one who ruined it, I wasted your time, I'm sorry."

Sonoko gives a small, sad smile. "You didn't waste my time," she says. She traces her thumb over Zayn's temple, her cheekbone, her lips. 

Zayn leans into it. They look at each other, understand, for a while, the things that people who have been in love can say without words; then they tip forward, as though drunken, sinking, and kiss, the kiss of people that sink and do not come up for air, a kamikaze kiss, slow and furious and sweet and tender and everything you pour into a last kiss. It's over too soon. Those things are always over too soon, and not soon enough. They shouldn't even have started, but you can't regret them. 

"I'm sorry," Zayn repeats when they pull away, her hand splayed over Sonoko's neck. 

"I told you," Sonoko repeats, her voice slow but carrying a hope Zayn hopes fervently she isn't manufacturing, a hope that's shiny and solar and carrying something new and brilliant to construct the future with. "You've got nothing to be sorry about."

That's a lie. That's an obvious lie, but Zayn lets it slide, because it's a gentle lie, more a gift than anything else. "Okay," she says. 

Sonoko takes Zayn's hand and gives it a short, powerful squeeze. She smiles. Then she lets go, and it's like falling into a precipice, terrifying. 

"Go get her," she says. 

Zayn does. 

*

You know that feeling you get when you bungee jump? When after all that nervousness, all that working yourself up about whether or not the cord really is solid, whether all the people who admittedly survived this were actually a carefully constructed hoax, whether you're going to, in fact, die, you just… jump? 

Yeah, Zayn neither. She's never been a big fan of heights. 

But it's what she imagines it would feel like. She's running – again –, and she's pretty sure that if her heart beats any louder it's going to wake up the whole city – well, at least the part of the city that's still asleep. Eight a.m. might be early for her, it's not actually that early for a lot of people. 

The point being – the point being, bungee jumping. It probably feels like that – like running to Liam's flat with every intention of telling her, "I love you too, and you better not break my heart another time or I'll kill you, I swear to god Liam, I will," like your feet hitting the ground and your breath stuttering in your chest and your hair slapped back by the wind, your stupid breasts jiggling because that's what breasts do and the jogger across the road looks at them like they're fucking marionettes. Zayn breaks her stride to breathe in a few eager gulps of air and flip him off.

She resumes running, half surprised when her resolve doesn't diminish with her heart rate. She feels ecstatic, in fact, and half of it is probably due to the adrenalin produced by running but the other half – the other half is all Liam. Stupid, gorgeous Liam who just showed up across Zayn's lawn one day when she was nine and changed her fucking life. Stupid, gorgeous Liam who spent so much time being tortured and torturing Liam, who just says "the sex was better with you" and fucks up Zayn's carefully arranged life all over again. She should probably be pissed, but she isn't, not anymore. Liam's felt enough guilt for a lifetime.

So – there she is. Liam's doorstep. It occurs to her that she's not been in here since Liam's moved out. She's had the address stacked in her phone, a matter of courtesy because Liam is like that, but she's never actually wanted to be here, where the trace of Jessica would no doubt remain and where everything would be painfully _Liam_ , just like it was it was in their old flat, the trinkets and the disgustingly well-organised utensils in the kitchen. 

Liam opens the door. She doesn't look bleary, or half-awake. It's Liam. She's probably already walked the dog, done a 10K run and drunk a protein shake while writing an A+ essay. She looks bright, beautiful and everything's Zayn's wanted since she was old enough to want things, to want girls with big brown eyes and kind smiles who didn't hurt except when they did. She's wearing clothes that belong in a vintage store (or, more appropriately, the trash) with approximately none of the irony she'd need to pull them off. She's not wearing make-up. 

And, god, Zayn wants to jump her. She wants to draw her in and kiss her and never leave. 

"Shit," she says. That wasn't what she'd planned to say first.

Liam's mouth makes an oh-shape. Zayn's pretty sure she's going to say something that amounts to, "what are you doing here," when she reverts back to her first choice of declaration on her doorstep. 

"I love you."

That's better. See, she can do it. 

Liam blinks. "You do," she says. 

"Yes."

"Okay," says Liam. 

"Okay," says Zayn. 

They stand on the doorstep. They're looking at each other. Love. What a peculiar notion. It occurs to Zayn that she doesn't even know if Liam's got a dog to walk. Probably not, but she thinks she remembers her with a dog at some point. Probably Jessica's. So she didn't walk the dog this morning. Okay.

Liam clears her throat. She still looks like she heard "it's the beginning of the zombie apocalypse" instead of a simple little "I love you." Maybe Zayn should check. 

"Do you want to come in?" Liam asks, moving out of the way. 

"Sure," Zayn shrugs. She feels lighter, anyway. She could probably walk on clouds and all that shit. 

They sit on the sofa. Liam usually proposes tea at this juncture, but right now she just sits down, her back very straight. "So you love me," she repeats, as though to make sure. "By which you mean, you're in love with me?" 

"Yes," says Zayn. It really shouldn't be that much of a surprise. 

"Since when?"

 _Forever_ , Zayn thinks. "A while," she says. 

"Huh," says Liam. 

"What about you?" Zayn asks. Otherwise they're not going to get anywhere. Liam's usually pretty efficient when it comes to reaching logical conclusions, but it looks like Zayn's got her stumped with that one. 

"What _about_ me?" Liam retorts, with little to no eloquence, which Zayn will forgive, given the circumstances. 

"Are you in love with me?" Zayn asks. She's nervous, all of a sudden. After all, she based all of her actions off of hearsay, it's not like she exactly verified at the source. By which she means, sure, she always assumed Liam was in love with her, it seemed plausible enough, but then, she's always been particularly gullible when it comes to Liam. 

But it looks like she had nothing to worry about, because Liam blinks and - "Oh," she says. "Yeah."

"Great," Zayn says. 

Liam gives a nervous little laugh, as though only now realizing the ridiculousness of their situation. She wipes her forehead with one hand. "God," she breathes. She sounds more normal, all of a sudden, and Zayn gets the urge to kiss her, the same urge as it's always been, overwhelming and strong, so strong – except now it's possible. Potentially, that is. Except now it's potentially possible, unless Liam finds some new shiny problem to wedge between them, which Zayn wouldn't put past her, and Zayn won't have to pretend that she's not enjoying it, that she's not, in fact, head over heels for that stupid girl.

"What about Sonoko?" Liam asks next, but her shoulders are more relaxed, she looks like herself-now again, instead of herself-last year, with all the guilt and anger and resentment and fear. 

Zayn doesn't know exactly how to answer that question. Her face crumples a little. "I hurt her," she says. "I told her... I shouldn't have done that, but I'm in love with you, Liam, and she deserves someone who's going to love her fully – you know?"

That sounds _so much_ like an excuse. That sounds so much like every bullshit excuse Zayn wished she'd never say to anyone, much less a girl she actually, honestly loved. 

"I'm sorry," Liam says with understanding. How come Zayn, who is such a selfish bastard, only falls in love with people who are kind and understanding and make her feel like shit in comparison? If god's trying to teach her a lesson, he's not being very subtle. 

"Don't be sorry for me," Zayn says. "But she'll get better, she'll get over me. She'll find someone." That's really more hope than conviction, though Zayn can't believe there's not some cute girl with too many tattoos and a marshmallow heart and a tongue equally as talented as hers out there ready to snag Sonoko as soon as Zayn has the bad taste to let her go.

So then there's nothing standing between them, except for the coffee table and ten years of pent-up emotion and all the times Zayn swore heart and banner she would never go down that road again, no mister, because she's not a self-destructive sucker. 

"Hey," she says, suddenly feeling small and deflated. At least the coffee table is there, sturdy and covered with books about dogs and how to brew coffee. Maybe Liam _does_ have a dog after all. But wouldn't Zayn have heard it barking, or at least seen it, by now? "Don't break my heart, okay?"

Liam's face actually crumples; it does that thing where it folds inwards and Liam sucks in breath and should, in all reason, look at least a little less beautiful, but doesn't. "I won't. I'm sorry if I did, I -"

_am sorry for all the times I was vicious and afraid and cruel and the times I stomped on your heart and that time where I kissed that guy just after you and me_

"It's fine. It's behind us now." _I'm sorry too_. Zayn always has things to be sorry for. She doesn't usually turn the other cheek; instead she's just as vicious, just as afraid, just as cruel. She bites and tears and fights. She's sure she broke a few things in Liam's body, too, even if her heart wasn't one of them. Good for her, if that's the case. It's not something Zayn wishes on her worst enemies.

And then – then, well, Liam stands up, and Zayn stands up, and the coffee table from up there looks like nothing, _is_ nothing, and they step over it and kind of fall all over themselves to kiss, it's pathetic, they laugh, they breathe, they say things they mean, things they don't mean, things they might mean, things they'll mean one day. 

And they kiss, they press their opens mouths together and their tongues touch, it sends an electric shiver down Zayn's spine and she thinks, _there. There we are._

And she says, "I love you," against Liam's lips, just to hear it turn into something familiar, something she'll say every day a hundred times, something that will belong to them like it belongs to every couple, like it belongs to Harry and Louise, to Nick and Matt and Aiden, to Josh and Niall, to Sonoko and whoever will be lucky enough to get her. 

"I love you too," Liam replies, her eyes open into the kiss, and fuck if that isn't the most wonderful thing.


End file.
